Munkustrap: WereCats
by Velvedere
Summary: The autobiography of a certain CATS character when combined with elements of Scarlet Pimpernel and White Wolf's books.
1. Munkustrap: WereCats 1

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Munkustrap – Part One

I was only seventeen when I found out I was a werecat. It was shortly after my birthday. Now that I know better seventeen was an ideal Age of Change, but considering how unknowing I was at seventeen, how naive and immature, makes it seem all the more young.

I could never see the stars in Manhattan; the lights were too bright. But it wasn't something I ever missed. I was born and raised here. The headlights of the cars twenty stories below turned the city streets at night into a gently flowing river of gold, criss-crossing between the dark buildings, some square, some rounded. These lights were dwarfed by the stair-stepping luminescence of the World Trade Center and the Twin Towers. Sometimes I could see the moon when I sat on the roof of the building where I lived, though only rarely. The bleat of the sounds outside were as common to me as my heartbeat, the lights as welcome as the sun. Of course at seventeen I didn't appreciate these things as I should have. At that moment nothing was on my mind except Sara Whitson.

Sara and I were alone on the rooftop after escaping the hot crowded birthday party my father had thrown for me. It was nothing special: the same stuck-up people I saw at all the other parties, the same tasteless food and drinks, the same boring gossip and chit-chat. I was glad to leave. Now I stared only at Sara. Her dark eyes reflected the golden lights from below, her black evening gown sparkling with sewn patterns of beads. Even after all these years I can still remember the scent of her hair blowing in the gentle sea breeze.

Was I in love with Sara? I don't think so. The relationship I had with her then was a mere infatuation brought on by youthful longing. I thought I did at the time.

"I'm glad we got out of there," Sara said finally. "Those parties get so boring."

I nodded in agreement, not disturbing the serenity with more speech. I was too captivated by her appearance: the curves of her female shape as she sat on the building edge, the deep crimson that covered her lips, the long sweep of her lashes, the feeling that we'd been here a quarter of an hour already and my anxiousness was mounting. Nowadays I would never allow myself to think the thoughts that were running through my head then. I wanted her. And what Hunter Blakeney wanted, Hunter Blakeney received. I suppose it was this kind of thinking that urged me on when I leaned forward and kissed her.

The kiss alone I don't think she would have minded if I'd stopped there. Ah, but the fool I was! I wasn't thinking with my head. I advanced further, impatient, wanting everything immediately: the sort of life I was used to. These are the memories of my younger self that I wish I could forget.

"No, Hunter," she said firmly, pushing me away a little. But I didn't stop. For shame! If I could only travel back to that night, given my former self a rightful drubbing, apologize to Sara so that she may speak to me again. But I can only wish for such things. I had her wrist trapped, pulling her forward, her struggles growing stronger. "I said no!"

Despite the pain it caused me, I'm now glad she got away. Heaviside only knows what he would have done. I speak of my younger self as though a different person. It may as well have been that way. I was so different then, so utterly inconsiderate and selfish. My change from that has been slow, but drastic. I'm getting ahead of myself. Those things will come later.

She did indeed escape me. Before I could even cry out her high-heeled foot had connected with the one vulnerable spot between my legs and she was bolting down the stairs. I must have cursed horribly as I collapsed to the ground, holding myself in agony as tears sprang into my eyes. Her footsteps died away in my ears, and I was glad. I must have wept piteously from the pain. I couldn't have beared it if she remained there to see me. For a long while all I could do was writhe.

My father always said I was spoiled, being an only child. I asked him why, then, did he not remarry and have more children? He said he had his reasons, but was never more specific than that. And I _was_ spoiled. My family was one of the richest in New York City, having gained a fortune of nearly 16 billion dollars through generations of careful planning, investments, and luck. I was the heir to that fortune, and in being rich I was used to getting things I wanted. And when I didn't, I became cross and bitter. This was why Sara's rejection so angered me. That, and the fact I was utterly humiliated for having to struggle nearly half an hour before I could stand and speak normally. Even then it still hurt to walk.

I limped back down the stairway into the main hall as quickly as I could manage without drawing curious attention. My eyes scanned the crowd there angrilly for Sara, but she was nowhere to be found. My father, however, sighted me immediately and was standing at the foot of the stairway, eyes locked on me as I came down slowly, straightening my jacket, trying to regain that image of an unemotional aristocrat who cared about nothing; a look that my father excelled at. I stopped when I stood next to him.

"Just like you to leave your guests at your own party," he said to me, his lips barely moving. I glared at him, and could only attempt to stare him down for a few moments before I looked away.

"I was on the roof," I said flatly. "I needed some fresh air, sir."

My father's face always reminded me of soft leather, worn from age and furrowed from his days spent in deep thought. His eyes were the deepest brown, contrasting the silver-gray sheen that covered his chin and thinning hair. He was tall, towering a good head over me. If he'd had the accent, John James Blakeney could have easily passed for Sean Connery. The way he looked at me now as I came down those stairs was the way he always looked at me: regarding me as the snot-nosed brat I was. In my niavte I hated him for it. I tried to honor him as best I could, as I should have, actually, but time and time again I lied to him, stole from him, went directly against his orders when I knew well enough not to. Enough church and religious teaching had been pressed upon me so that I held a deep fear for God. I feared him, but I did not respect him. I did not know this at the time, though. I thought about this often in later years. My fear of going to Hell and of God's wrath was complete, yet I sinned constantly and never asked His forgiveness. It made me dispicable: an aristocrat as well as a hippocrite. It was the same way with my father. I feared him, but did not respect him. But I did not think these things at the time.

"Well, get back to your guests. You'll offend them otherwise."

Those cold words and I dragged my feet through the crowded hallway, returning the false smiles thrown at me and the countless congradulations. I avoided all who wanted to drop into a lengthy conversation. At the far end of the main hall opposite the stairwell it narrowed into a short entrance way that ended at the main door. In this entrance way was a soft velvet-cushioned couch that I plopped myself down on wearily. The sound of soft opera music came from somewhere, and I listened to it longingly. With only the wall before me it was inevitable that my eyes landed on the portrait of my mother. Everyone, even my father, told me how much I resembled her. But I don't see why. I was tall. My hair was a mix of blonde dominated by chestnut brown, matching my eyes.

I hardly remember my mother. She died when I was about three. Heart disease, I was always told. There was a large portrait hanging of her in the main hall, the one I gazed at now, but my father kept no other pictures of her. And that's all the portrait was to me: a picture. I never felt emotionally drawn to it, not even for the thought of her. I didn't know her. Therefore I had no desire to be with her. It was with this strange detachment that my father's voice took on when he spoke of her, flat, to the point. After awhile I stopped asking.

According to the painting my mother was a very beautiful woman. Full-faced and full-figured, her hair was a thick, curly blonde that fell in a golden shower down to her shoulder blades, the higher curls of it framing her face in lovely brightness. Her eyes were crystal blue, the clarity that only holiness achieves. I though it was just the painting. I remember thinking of her appearance to be very child-like, with that youthful innocence that only enhanced her beauty. Then I scoffed myself for thinking such. If a painting could work for a President, it could certainly work for a rich man's wife. My father never told me where she was buried, but with the knowledge I have now I see that he had good reason not to.

Mark Jeffrey Daniels III was probably the only person I considered my "friend" back then. Red-headed and hot-blooded, he was one year older than me and in my opinion had a much better life. He lived with his aunt and uncle, his parents carrying on their businesses in Ireland, and he had complete freedom. His aunt and uncle didn't care what he did. He drank, he gambled, he messed around with girls. Of course, at eighteen, he was an adult…legally. His family didn't have the vast fortune mine did, but these pleasures of the flesh that he enjoyed freely were what I wanted to spend my youth doing…so I visited him as often as my father would allow. Mark lived in a penthouse on Park Avenue, only a few streets from mine on Fifth and Broadway. The morning after the party I was able to escape to his counsel. I found him lounging in the indoor heated pool he called a bathtub in his trunks. He asked what was foremost on his mind when he saw me: "How's Sara?"

"Hello to you, too," I said. He grinned, swimming up the the edge and crossing his arms over the tile floor. His thick hair draped over his head with sogginess, but was none the less brighter.

"C'mon," his freckled face contrasted his wide blue eyes eagerly. "What happened? You were up there almost an hour. How far did you get?"

"I didn't," I admitted and pulled up a chair. I was in a plaid sweatshirt and dark slacks that were gold compared to that horrible tuxedo. "I don't think I'll ever get her alone with me again."

"She's playing hard to get," Mark continued to laugh. In one smooth movement he pulled himself out, dripping water over the floor and onto me as he reached for a towel. "No worries, Hunter." He ruffled his hair with the towel then threw it at me. "I'm throwing you a real party. Tonight. Me and some guys I know are taking you out for a night on the town. Our treat."

To say the least I was astonished, but not ungrateful. "Where?"

"It's a surprise. The music's loud, the beer's great, and the women…" He gazed at the ceiling with a sigh of one living a fantasy. "You'll forget all about Sara."

By the end of that night, I had indeed forgotten all about Sara.

My only obstacle of meeting Mark that night was getting past my father. At first my hopes were doused totally. All evening my father sat in his study with his tea and pipe, working on things I was never sure of. The study was a smaller side room leading off from the main hall, which I would have to cross to get to the main doorway. He always left the heavy wooden doors to the study open as well. So was my obstacle.

Its solution was simple, really: find a means of escape other than the door. Escape! Ahh, that was it. The fire escape. It would be an easy enough climb to the street. I would slip out my window, then use all I could to remain silent on the creaky metal.

Night fell swiftly, and after double-checking that my father was working away soundly, I stole out my window and down the fire escape. I went slow at first, measuring each step on the metal. I knew that a mere pigeon landing on the rail was enough noise to stir me from sleep. The last thing I wanted was to draw attention. But, I found, as soon as I went I could increase my pace and still step without so much as a rustle. I laughed at this, and before long I was on the street.

I hastily straightened my sweater—the same I'd worn earlier—as I rounded the corner of the building to the front. I should have known it would have been safer to meet in the back of the building, but in my anxiousness safety was neglected. I saw Mark in his silver convertible with the top down parked against the curve. Two others that looked about our age sat with him, bobbing their heads to the music that blared over the radio. Deciding myself home free, I strode boldly towards them.

"Hunter?"

I spun in fear when I heard my name, most certain I'd been discovered. I saw first the horsey features of the doorman, a questioning look about his long face. In a haste I slapped two fifty dollar bills from my pocket into his hand, closing his fingers around them. "You never saw me," I whispered harshly. I then left him there, astounded, and jumped into the back seat of Mark's car.

"Birthday Boy!" he crowed over the radio as he took off, the engine of the car purring beautifully. Right off he introduced me to the two other guys: Gary and Simon, then them to me. Simon's green eyes glanced me up and down suspiciously from where he sat up front on the passenger side.

"Are you sure he's eighteen?" he asked Mark dubiously. "He looks a little young."

"Of course he is," Mark laughed, winking at me in the rearview mirror. "Yesterday was his birthday."

That seemed to satisfy him, and I leaned forward eagerly, peering over Mark's shoulder. "So where are we going?"

"Just you wait!" Gary pushed me back playfully.

The bar was of course one of the sleaziest places on the island. The kind where well-to-do heirs such as ourselves would never have been allowed to go...had our parents known. A single neon sign flickered and blinked outside over the single doorway, and from it the only words I could distinguish were "Blood Red." It was a three-story building wedged between two others that looked abandoned. The first floor was a bar, the second was gambling and drugs, the third prostitution…or so I guessed. I wasn't blind to these things, which made me all the more a fool to even go there.

We went in: four eager rich kids looking for a good time, not knowing what it was we were getting into. The place inside was laden heavily with smoke, lights galore, music playing from a loudspeaker somewhere that rattled the boards beneath my feet. Mark led the way directly to the bar, ordering a round of beer for us all. I stared at mine a moment, feeling a slight nervousness. I remembered tasting the champagne at the numerous parties I'd been to. I didn't like it.

"C'mon, Birthday Boy," Mark clapped me on the back. "Bottoms up." And he up-ended his drink after making a mock-formal toast that made my cheeks burn. I downed mine in a quick gulp, following the manner of my peers. The cheap beer tasted rancid and burned my gut, but I kept it down with only a cough. That's when I first saw her.

My arm was crossing over my mouth at that moment, wiping away tasteless foam, when I caught sight of her sitting unassumingly in a far corner amid the shadows. Immediately I stopped. She was indeed beautiful in a dark sort of way. It's hard to describe. Her raven black hair was fine and straight, just barely brushing her shoulders. Her mouth was small and thin, turned up in a small smile when she saw my eyes land on her. I think she must have been watching me for some time. She was dressed entirely in skin-tight black clothes: a shirt that reached only her midsection, and shorts that stopped just above her knees. What I found most sensuous were her eyes. Twin deep pools that had entirely black irises in the shadow. My attention was fixed solidly on her, and would have remained so if Mark hadn't pulled me back to refill my glass. When I looked back, she was gone.

Three glasses of beer disappeared down my throat, nothing compared to the five or six Mark, Gary, and Simon consumed each. In a little over an hour we were all little drunk, and a little bored. The dance floor was was crowded, the same type of loud music playing on end. It seemed all too planned…

"Hello boys," a voice behind us said. We turned. I drew in my breath as I saw the same girl in black standing there. Up close she looked drastically different. Her features were slanted, Asian-like, but her skin very pale in contrast with her clothing. Her eyes, though, still possesed that enticing sensuality. And she was not alone. A blonde and a redhead accompanied her, all dressed in cheap skimpy outfits. "Lookin' for a date?"

Mark leaped upon the opportunity. "I don't know," he swaggered. "Can you three handle us?"

The redhead squinted her dazzling green eyes, making an ugly face. "More the other way around: can _you_ handle _us_?"

Mark thought there was no need for further conversing. So the four of us, hooting and hollaring, followed the three girls upstairs. I was the least drunk of the lot, which was probably the same reason the slant-eyed Asian took my hand and urged me on. Of course this was what I thought. The real reason I wouldn't discover until much later. "C'mon," she said, her dark eyes drawing me in. And I went.

They took us up the stairs to the third floor of the building, down a dark hall lined with doors. This building had once meant to be a hotal, I thought, and that was all on that subject. The hallway was dark with night, but in the dimness that filtered through I could make out the numerous cracks, gaps, stains, and peeling on the walls. I tried not to touch them. And from behind those rotting doors I could hear the most vulgar sounds. I don't care to remember them. It was the last doorway at the end of the hall that they swept us into, laughing mystically, shutting the door behind us.

The room was about the right size for a hotel, bare of furniture except two ratty metal-framed beds. A single window on the far end streamed in light from outside: the only source. Immediately Mark took one of the girls and sat her on one of the beds, covering her in wet, sloppy kisses that she seemed to encourage. The second girl pushed whom I just recently knew as Gary up against the wall, kissing his neck aggressively. She must have been doing something great, because suddenly he became very still and very quiet, her face turned away from me but still locked on his throat. Simon I heard snicker and join Mark.

The slant-eyed one pushed me up against the wall in a similar manner with a strength I found surprising, but in my intoxication very alluring. Her sensuous dark eyes caught mine and held them. It took my breath away when she kissed me, breathing slow and deep. I was rigid to the wall in fear, for you see I'd never done this sort of thing before…this was far different from the way Sara had acted. I grabbed her around her waist as her kisses went from my mouth to my neck, and that was when I was able to see over her shoulder.

Gary was still against the wall, but now he sat slumped on the floor, head lolling limply, as though asleep. I saw the woman he had been with glide like a ghost across the room, slipping into eager Simon's arms. She seemed fuller now than when I'd seen her before: healthier, older. Not a girl, but a woman. It didn't strike me that something was wrong until the woman crushing herself against me kissed my neck again, and I felt the prick of two tiny sharp teeth. I opened my mouth to cry out, but the raspy sound of hunger that came from her silenced me by fear. She grabbed my shoulders, her nails penetrating my shirt, and this time I saw the gleam of fangs as she lunged for my throat. The word "vampire" exploded in my mind then, but barely recognizeable. I pushed her back in a violent reaction to get away from this thing I knew not to be natural.

I screamed for Mark, but the sound of it seemed to be swallowed as something materialized from the shadows…or had it been there all along? All attention was drawn to him, the tall dark figure, standing in absolute stillness, face hidden in shadow. His outline dwarfed us all: Mark, myself, the three women, one of which now held a lifeless Simon in her grasp. I didn't know why or how Gary and Simon were dead, but it seemed that no other solution fit.

"What is this?" Mark growled roughly, pushing aside the girl clinging to him to stand. My own reeled a step back from me, glaring evilly at the new presence. Another sound, this one like the hissing of a snake, but just as disturbing, was aimed at the new figure but chilled my spine.

"Away with you," the slant-eyed woman hissed. "These boys are ours." She threw back a hand that pressed against my chest, pinning me to the wall with her strength, but I wouldn't have moved anyway. I was too petrified. Even moreso when the figure raised one incredibly long arm and pointed directly at me.

"I want only that one." His voice echoed in my ears, drawing from me an involuntary sound that I think was a moan. I could feel my sweaty hands press against the wall, shaking under the power of his voice. Mark was not so taken.

"Hey!" He strode forward boldly to the figure. Even if I did call out for him to stop I don't think he would have listened. "What's the deal? Are you making videos or someth—hluck!"

He wasn't within an arm's length of the figure when something flashed, faster than my eyes could follow, and my mouth fell open in horror as Mark crumpled to the ground, beheaded in mid-sentence.

If I screamed I didn't remember it. The same flash of black, an unseen movement, and I was jerked forward and flung to the floor. I found myself at the feet of the tall dark figure, staring into Mark's lifeless eyes. I held my breath, the figure's voice like steam escaping a vent. "It will only hurt a little, Hunter." He laughed, heartlessly.

But something happened. It began slowly, starting as only a warm feeling in my hands. It felt like a tingle, the circulation rushing back into them after being cut off: a hot itch. It spread quickly up my arms, through my back, igniting all of my insides in a burning fire. I felt myself gasp for breath, though the feeling was strange and frightening, it wasn't unpleasant. And something came with it. Something deeper down. An unfathomable rage such as I'd never known before. It is hard to describe unless you have felt it as well. Rage, wrath, bloodlust, none of these words seem to draw close to that feeling. I heaved myself to my feet, struggling to stand straight as the room seemed to rock. I heard the cruel laughter of the dark shape and the women falter, dying out. Then the room lit up, as though a sudden light flooded it, and for a fraction of a second I could sense everything around me. I could see easily through the darkness as though in broad daylight. I saw the figure's face: a rotting, molded lump of flesh that reeked of decay. I could smell as well. The scent of blood from the floor was overpowering, accompanied by the smell of ages that surrounded the women and the figure. But more than that, I could hear. Not only distinctly make out the sounds two floors below my feet and beyond the walls, but the rapid beating of their vile hearts, the sharp intake of breaths as one of the women cried out a word I didn't understand. And I felt power. That unspeakable, undescribable anger at nothing directly was accompanied by a surge of power. With these burning golden arrow shafts hurtling through my blood I launched myself forward at the figure. Anything after that was black.

The next thing I remember, I was collapsed before the main double door of the penthouse I called home, weeping horribly, and I had no clothes on. And a scent covered me. My mind didn't register in the sudden confusion that the scent was not as strong as what I thought was only a few moments before, but the horrible deathly musk I knew could only be blood.

I reached for the door handle, blinded by hot tears that poured from an unknown source, but visible plainly were my hands, covered in scarlet red. I must have already knocked or made some sound, for in an instant the door swung open, revealing the pleasant face of the maid. It turned a stark white when she saw me.

"Sweet Saints," she gasped and crossed herself, taking a step back. Her Scottish accent I had always found amusing before, but of little comfort now. She turned back, urgently calling my father. His angry words at being disturbed were heard plainly. He came stomping up behind her, removing the pipe from his mouth, his expression lightened in considerable astonishment as he saw his son. I looked at his face, but hadn't the strength to meet his eyes.

"Dad…"

My father said nothing. He waved the maid away, then drew me up to put his arm around my shoulders and led me inside. "This way, son." He took me up the flight of stairs to my room, draping the blankets over me as I crashed onto the bed: a heap of exhausted flesh. What happened next I'm not sure, for soon everything was forgotten as I slipped into a deep sleep.

My father was dead the next day.

They said it happened in his sleep, a mixture of stress, age, and double pnumonia. Where he'd contracted it, how long he'd had it, I don't know. The maid had found him when she came in as she did every morning. Immediately she roused me groggily and called the paramedics. I sat slumped wearily into the den chair and watched them take his body, seeming to be just asleep, down to the street where a curious crowd had gathered: public and press. I only then realized what had happened. Not emotionally, but financially. The rest of the day I was approached by people I'd never met: lawyers, accountants, my father's friends, and signed my name to more documents than I could count. By the end of the day I was the owner of all my father's assets, willed to me in his last statement. I wasn't able to even see my father until around midnight, and by then he'd already been laid in his coffin.

I remember standing there, looking down on his peaceful, leathery face, and finding myself shocked at the realization that I felt no sorrow. I felt nothing inside. Only a bleak emptiness. I had never loved my father completely, and I hated myself for it. I look back on it, then I look at the friends I have accumulated since then. They speak of their families as they knew them. I can only remember my father as a straight public figure who spent his days doing our accounts, and his nights working the circles of the aristocracy politics. I listen to those who say they have even slaughtered their parents. But it was blind, and they reflect on it with a near suicidal remorse. But I cannot. I could have slaughtered my father in cold blood and felt nothing. He was a stranger. I never loved him.

Four days after his death I was still signing papers, the richest teenager in New York with a 16 billion dollar heritage to manage, alone in a top-floor penthouse with only a maid and man servant. I was sitting at my father's old desk…the large, polished oak desk in the study where he used to spend his days. I'd found myself sitting in this large cushioned chair for hours on end since he died, my chin against my chest, my hands gripping the arms, wondering why I did not miss him. I thought the reason was obvious. I was an inconsiderate brat and so was my father. It seemed simple enough. My eyes roved over the study. I saw the ancient leather-bound books shoved together wall-to-wall along the high bookshelf, the dust dancing like golden sparkles through the evening sunlight that poured through the open windows, the marks in the polished wood surface of the desk where countless pens, mail openers, or coffee mugs had strayed my father's hand. This room reminded me so much of him, yet the thought of him was the thought of when I looked at a photo: meaningless memories. The same feeling when I looked at the portrait of my mother. I knew these people existed, that I had lived with them, but cared nothing.

I was in the study, thinking these things, when the maid knocked and entered slowly to hand me a large envelope that had just been delivered. It was large with no return address, only one word scrawled across the front in green ink: the flawless cursive strokes that I knew were my father's. _Hunter_. Slowly, I tore it open. Its contents were even more curious: a leather book no wider than my finger, a typed letter, a photo, and a knife. I sifted through them slowly. They smelled of dust and age, except the letter. I picked it up and read it.

"To Hunter Blakeney from your father John James Blakeney."

That didn't surprise me. It was the first line that disturbed me most.

"My son, you are not human. And you are in danger. Horrible danger. I am sitting here by your bed, watching you sleep, as I write this. I will probably be dead by morning. It may be due to the cough I've had for a month now, but I think it is more than that. If I live, this letter will be of no use and I will tell you myself, as I think I should. But you are exhausted from whatever it was that happened earlier tonight which brought you home bedraggled and bare. I can guess. The slight marks on your throat and the stench hovering about you reeks of vampire. I can see you are well, though tired.

Yes, I do know of the vampires. I know of them and much more, so vast I could not possibly explain to you in a mere letter. Let me start with the most important: you are not human. Nor am I. Nor was your mother, your grandparents, your aunts and uncles. If you remember what happened last night, you will know I am speaking true. If not, then read carefully. You, your entire family bloodline, are werecats: we appear human, but have the special gift of being able to change our forms into that of cats. You were never told because it had to come on your own time, when you first changed. With the actions of tonight I suspect that this was it. From my guess you were out, against my wishes, but out…"

That was my father. Dead for days and he still berates me.

"…and that you had some sort of an encounter with vampires. Their appearance must have triggered your Age of Change, but it was that involuntary shift, my son, that possibly saved your life. Otherwise I doubt you would have returned here. I can feel my cough growing stronger by the moment, so I doubt by morning I will live. I'm leaving you these few instructions. First, after you read this letter, burn it. Second, I am enclosing the address of B.J. Jones, or as I know him: Bustopher Jones. He is a close friend of mine who shares our secret of being a Jellicle. He will be able to explain things thoroughly to you. Have no fear, he knows who you are. I can't tell you everything you will need to survive this curse and blessing that runs in your blood, but he will. Trust him, but no one else until you have learned the signs of vampires, werewolves, and our other enemies. You must believe me, son. All of this may sound outrageous, but it's true. In time, you will learn. Lastly, the items I am enclosing in this letter are vitally important. Do not let them out of your sight. You must take them and go immediately to Bustopher. He will be able to explain their significance.

I trust you to good judgement through your life, son. I have tried to raise you as best I could, but being wealthy and having to hide my feline blood has been a task. Perhaps you will succeed better as a father than I, as you eventually must. You are my son, and I have always loved you as one."

I read and reread the letter at least four times, sifting and shuffling the words over in my mind, trying to make sense of them. I remembered dimly Brian James Jones from the times he'd visited my father, but barely. The rest of it, oddly enough, I did not question. After what had happened, so many deaths, the encounter with what I was now firmly convinced were actual vampires, my blank lapse, I found that I was willing to accept any explanation. At least now I had one. I moved as though in a daze, writing down the address, reading again my father's parting words, feeling a bite of remorse, burning the letter, then gathering up the items to leave. If I read the address right, this "Bustopher Jones" lived on Park Avenue, only a few apartment buildings away from where Mark used to live. I put the book and knife back into the letter package and was going to do the same with the photo when I held it up, studying it.

My breath stopped as I saw it. The photo was black and white, a little fuzzy, but its image was clear. A woman sat amid a tangle of sheets and pillows, a white slip her only cover. She was smiling at the child she held in her arms. I knew that woman immediately. It was my mother. And the child…

The child in her arms wasn't human. Built like one, it was covered in fur, possessed a tail, and had the features of a genuine cat. Its fur hung limp and wet from birth, a delicate pattern of bold stripes.

"That's me," I gasped out loud.

That was how I found out I was a werecat.


	2. Munkustrap: WereCats 2

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Munkustrap – Part Two

When I was around seven or eight I remember having horrible dreams. Nightmares. Some were bloody and violent, others were outright strange. They were all about cats, or contained cats. In most of them I was a cat, prowling city streets or through jungles, endlessly searching for something. I never knew exactly what, but in these dreams there were two strong desires pulling at me: one for the hunt, another for females. At seven or eight these dreams were _extremely_ odd, but I never told anyone about them. As I grew so did they, in intensity, detail, and length. I explained it to myself as just odd notions of my mind, but at that moment when I learned of what I really was, they began to make sense.

There was one I particularly remember as being the most recurrent. In this one I was the cat, prowling the roots and tree limbs of a jungle, on the trail of something hot. Suddenly I come to a clearing and there, bathed in moonlight, is a beautiful feline. What she looked like was never very clear, but I knew she had to be gorgeous. Fantasies, I told myself. Pure fantasies. She bounded away into the woods and I followed her, the trees around us growing darker and thicker, until finally they choked out everything but her. She stopped, turning to look at me. A noise started from somewhere...I'm not sure where or what it was, but it grew louder and shriller, until a black shadow descended and darkened everything. The sound magnified in the darkness, blocking out all thoughts, all other sound, even the scream of the female. That was usually the point I woke up.

I had a dream that night after reading my father's letter. I fell asleep in my bed with the knife in my hand, the book open at the foot. I'd taken them to my room when the maid came for her afternoon dusting of the study along with the photo, looking them over, trying to make sense of them all. But the book was written strangely, English words but in such a way I didn't recognize them. I studied the knife. It was a slim, curving blade with a clean edge of an intricately carved handle of some kind of bone. I fell asleep with this in my hand, and that dream then was as clear to me now as it was when I dreamt it.

In my dreams I could always remember eyes. No matter who I encountered, their eyes were clear as daylight to me. I could see their colors intricately, see the emotion they held there. This was no different. I was staring into a wide pair of green eyes. So green...I thought at first they weren't human. They were enormous, covering all my vision. I just stared at them, not moving. All around me were noises...cat yeowls, dogs howling, women screaming, lightening crashing...but I remained fixed on those eyes. When I woke up those eyes were still fixed in my mind. Even today. I never forgot them.

I woke not with a start, but a sudden gentleness, as though I'd been awake the entire time. For hours I lay in an awkward position, one hand on my chest, the other behind my head, staring at the panels on the ceiling. My mind didn't remain on any particular subject...it roved: from the dream, to movies I'd seen, books I'd read, dim memories of my father, flitting through the mists of my seventeen years like a flickering movie reel. With this realization of what I was, that's all the past seemed. It was a movie that stirred emotions, but when it reached the present, the feeling had gone, leaving the thought that these emotions had been _really_ felt by someone else. Not me.

A sudden thought struck me as my hand rubbed the fabric of the blanket covering me. It was the one I disliked the most, and the irritated vexing this caused me at the time was an outrage. The clock read almost three in the morning, but I reached up for the buzzer that would signal the maid that lived a floor below. I stopped, frowning.

I am almost certain now it was that unconscious part of me that suddenly awoke: the weaker part of me that had remained buried under layers of a selfish and egotistical snob stirred, if only slightly, and bit at the conscience I didn't know I had. The maid was sleeping, I thought, why should I stir her? I knew she had a husband and a recently born son, which meant she had to perform her tasks double-time in order to make ends meet to care for her child. I thought about this, then did something I'd never imagined doing before. I got up and changed the blankets myself.

I couldn't get back to sleep after that. The sheets and blankets remained undisturbed while I sat at the desk by my window, chin in my hands, listening to the sounds of the busy street outside. I smiled a little as I could see the moon rising over the trees in Central Park. It was almost full, but not quite. I pulled the blue curtains open wide, relaxing my face muscles as the moonlight spilled over the room. My mind rushed back to that tattered room at the bar, where the women had led us, where Mark, Gary, and Simon had lost their lives. I remembered that rush of power before I blacked out...and I wondered if I could do it again.

I shut my eyes, breathing slow and measured, trying to concentrate. But on what? I wasn't able to pinpoint what it was exactly that had brought on that rush....according to my father that moment I changed into a cat for the first time. I thought about the anger of Mark's death. I tried to well up that rage inside me like a volcano about to burst. I couldn't. I concentrated until the front of my head ached.

Nothing happened. And the more that the rush of power didn't come, the more I longed for it. I groaned in frustration, rubbing my forehead, leaning back in the desk chair. My conscience berated my foolishness mercilessly as I got up and pulled on my robe. The sky was already lightening with day, and I did not feel the need for any more sleep. I went downstairs.

At the foot of the staircase leading down into the main hall I stopped, hearing voices. Of course. The maid and manservant were already up. The scent of cooking breakfast meat made my mouth water, but I stayed rooted to the spot. It was the maid's words that caught my attention.

"If ye could 'ave only seen 'im!" she was gasping in her quick Scottish tongue. "Covered in blood, filthy, an' bare h'as the day 'e was born!"

"Hunter?" the manservant gasped in equal astonishment. "Surely not!"

"I swear t' me mother's grave, 'e looked the likes of Lucifer 'imself!"

It only dawned on me then: the maid had seen me that fatal night. How could I have forgotten? Shoving my hands into the deep pockets of my woolly blue bathrobe, I straightened my messed hair and at a leisurely pace strode across the hall and into the doorless kitchen, my feet making barely a shuffle on the hard wood floor. I leaned on the framed doorway, watching the two behind the counter stove. The maid's back was to me. I waited. The manservant saw me first, and when he stepped back with a gasp of surprise the maid reeled, her wide brown eyes landing on me. She crossed herself and muttered something probably out of instinct alone. I couldn't help but smile. They were _afraid _of me!

"Master Blakeney," the maid finally stuttered breathlessly. "We didnae 'ear ye come about."

"I smelled the meat," I said darkly, grinning, enjoying the feeling of this terror that I invoked in them: the predator in me, I suppose.

"Will you be requiring anything...?" the manservant stuttered on. I raised my brows at him, as though not quite hearing, but crossed my arms in a manner that I had control of everything. In a way I felt I did. Not just because I was their employer now, that was every day. Now they feared me... I liked that.

"No," I dismissed the thought with my hand. "Not today. In fact, I'm giving you two a day off." I noted the surprised expression on their faces, but didn't stop. "I'm planning to visit a friend, and will probably spend most of the day there. Please lock up after I leave."

I turned and left, barely able to contain my laughter at the thought of the two of them standing dumbfounded in the kitchen. I went back up to my room and changed into a white button-up shirt with a black jacket, slacks to match, and gathered up the envelope and its contents. I slipped the paper B.J.'s address was written on into my pocket and headed out alone. I could still hear them in the kitchen as I left, whispering.

I declined the offer for a chauffeured ride that came as usual at the four-paneled door of the apartment building, saying to the doorman it was only a short walk. But I didn't go to B.J.'s right away. Instead I found myself wandering the street down towards Central Park.

Hands shoved deep into the pockets of my slacks, I stared at the sidewalk as I shuffled along, drinking in the sounds around me. Birds cooed and cawed in the trees. The murmur of the daily crowd was chopped by the sharp clap of horse hooves as they pulled carts through the paved paths. I patted one as it went by, feeling the bristly cinnamon hair under my palms. The scrape of it seemed remarkable, even moreso when I thought that those same hands had only a few days ago been covered in blood.

"_Wurrrrrrrrr_."

The sound of a deep dog's growl drew my eyes sharply to the right. A German Shepherd, fully grown, ears flat and mane bristling, had its fangs bared directly at me. I met its eyes angrily, for the moment halting on my lonely path. The dog hesitated a moment, drawing close to its master who was occupied at a curbside vendor, then in a lunge it snarled and pulled its leash from her hand. It came flying at me, jaws agape.

I heard the master cry out the moment the shepherd hit my chest. It all seemed to go in slow motion. I instinctly grabbed the dog's muzzle, my fingers seeking the gaps in its jagged teeth, which was probably the only thing that kept it from locking its jaws around my throat. The rest happened on its own. My feet rose up to the dog's middle, and in one powerful, sure movement of strength I flipped the dog over my head, feeling the metallic clip of its jaws as it tossed its muzzle to the side. I could have sworn I felt fur on my palms and fangs in my mouth.

"Oh my God!" the female owner dressed fully as a jogger screamed and covered her mouth. "Hunter Blakeney!" She rushed forward and helped me up, at the same time grabbing the dog's leash securely. "Oh, God, Mr. Blakeney, I'm so sorry!"

"It's alright," I tried to tell her. "It was an accident." I wasn't surprised that she recognized me. I was used to it by now. The noise had drawn a crowd of spectators, and in the sudden crowdiness I wanted nothing more than to get out of there. _Great, this will be in the news tomorrow_. I promised the woman nothing was wrong, then grabbed a passing horsecart and rode out of there. I glanced back once. There was the dog, standing with its tail between its legs. When it met my eyes again it cowered and backed away. I turned back and leaned against the cushioned seat. I'd never been attacked by a dog before, or any animal for that matter, and only when I was sitting there did my hands begin to shake. I don't think it was from the attack itself, but more from the way I had deflected the dog so swiftly and smoothly.

How did I do that?

Barely ten minutes later found me at the main double doors to B.J. Jones' penthouse. I was studying the mat, probably only procrastinating actually ringing the doorbell. It was thick and grass-colored, a track of black pawprints bordering it on all sides. _All cats welcome here_, it said. If my father's words still ran true as they had so far, I could guess the hidden meaning behind that message. My eyes remained fixed on that mat as my hand rose and punched the ringer.

"_Oui, monsieur_?" a gentle male voice emitted as the right door was opened. The tall Frenchman's shifty dark eyes landed on me snootily, but I hadn't the energy to react to it. "Ah, Monsieur Blakeney," he nodded before I could request to see B.J. "Monsieur Jones is expecting you."

Needless to say this surprised me. I followed him in silently. Down a short narrow hallway we went, designed much in the manner of my own, which opened suddenly into a wide main hall, flooded in bright sunlight from a series of tall windows lining the entire far wall. The floor was tiled a smooth white, in the manner of a grand ballroom, and a magnificent chandelier hung from the ceiling. In the midst of this room of white tile and golden panels was a black grand piano at which a man sat. Three silk green chairs were seated around his bench. Sweet music poured out crisp and clear from the piano's strings, a tune I recognized immediately from the musical _Phantom of the Opera_.

"Monsieur Hunter Blakeney," the butler announced formally. The man whose gloved fingers danced skillfully over the piano keys momentarily lifted one in an indication of strict silence while his other continued to pound the keys. The butler turned back to me obediently. "Do have a seat, Monsieur. He will be with you shortly." And he left. Cautiously I crossed the wide open floor to the three green seats and sat nearest the piano, watching Brian James Jones.

B.J. was just as I remembered him: a little overweight, but not terribly. It wasn't an ungainly kind of fat, more of a roundness that provided his image of jolly and warmth. He was an elderly man, around his late sixties, but he certainly didn't look it. Perhaps it was the extra pounds that rounded out any wrinkles or creases in his face and hands. I was almost certain he dyed his hair, for even in his age it remained a jet black. Not a single white or gray hair. The same could be said for his slim, neatly trimmed black mustache. A pence-nez was fixed securely in his right eye, a silver chain dangling from it to his black coat breast pocket. His face was taut with concentration as the music intensified, hits its climax, then ended in a triumphant pound of both hands. I listened to it without interest for the most part, watching his face. When it was over he settled back, straightened his jacket, and folded his hands neatly in his lap.

"I am sorry to hear about your father," he said. "It was a tragic loss."

I nodded, watching his eyes where they settled on the floor. Dark, almost black, his left seemed lifeless as opposed to his right, which glowed with the light reflected from the pence-nez.

"I received his letter," I said. "About you, and the vampires, and us being werecats."

B.J. looked up at me. "And do you believe his last words?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"But do you believe him?"

I shook my head. "Right now I don't know what I believe." I laughed a little, whether to throw off my nervousness with actually speaking of these things or to break the silence of the room I didn't know. "I'm told that I have the ability to turn into a cat, that vampires exist. Only a few days ago my biggest worry was to wear to my birthday party."

B.J. laughed at this, warm and merry. "And he told you about your mother?"

I nodded again.

"Well, then, where should I start?" He shifted positions, then rang his bell for the butler and ordered a plate of refreshments. "It is a long explanation."

We waited until the place was set before us and the butler had left. "First off," I began, "why did my father call you Bustopher?"

B.J. had already begun working on the tiny neatly-cut sandwiches that covered the plate, and it took everything I had to keep from laughing at the ridiculous bib he tied around his neck. "We werecats are properly called Jellicles. And we Jellicles have three names. The first, our human name. The second, the name we wear as our feline selves. For me, my second name is Bustopher, with or without the Jones. The third and last name is a secret name which, frankly, I have yet to see any purpose to at all."

"Hunter Blakeney," I said thoughtfully. "Then what's my second name, if I'm a werecat? How do we get it?"

"Your parents crest you with your second name at your birth. I was present at yours." He smiled, remembering a fond moment. "You are Munkustrap."

"Munkustrap?" I repeated, sounding the strange word. "Sounds to me like a brand of clothes."

He found no humor in this. "Jellicles should be proud of our heritage, and have every right to be. Munkustrap roughly translated into English means 'many stripe.'"

I leaned forward and shook my head, suddenly feeling very tired. "This is ridiculous."

"Why so, Master Blakeney?"

"Is all this is true," I rubbed my face wearily, then looked up. "Then how come I never noticed it before? Why now? All of a sudden?"

"I'm afraid I cannot answer those things until I've explained everything, or if at all."

I sighed. "My father said you could explain things. Whatever I needed to know."

"I will, if you'll have the patience to hear me out."

I settled back in the chair, preparing myself as I did at those boring speeches I had to sit through at my father's side.

"Very well then." He selected another sandwich triangle. "Be warned, nothing I say is a lie." He took a breath, then started. "Jellicle history stops dead at the Great War..."

Bustopher explained everything to me. About Jellicle history, werewolves, vampires, our three forms, the Gifts, all the way down to fur patterns. It took nearly two hours, and by the time he thought he'd covered everything A to Z, I was ready to fall asleep. My face was buried in my hands when he fell silent.

"This is too much." Werecats...shifting...Gifts...vampires...werewolves...moons...duty...all these things were being thrown at me too fast. I shifted my posture suddenly, covering my face as though that would stop the attack of realization from all this knowledge. I leaned my head back, rubbing my temples, and heard Bustopher laugh.

"You'll learn," he stated simply. "In time."

"Learn," I scoffed, glaring at him again. "What if I don't want to?"

"That would be...unfortunate."

"Unfortunate..." I echoed.

"Hunter, look up."

I looked up. I was no longer looking at a man. A cat-like creature sat in his place, hands still folded in that contemplative gesture. No longer was he overweight, but thickly-muscled with shiny black fur, a white face, chest, hands, and tail tip that reflected his human appearance. The clothes he had been wearing seemed to evaporate, leaving only fur, but his pence-nez remained fixed on his right eye. He removed it daintily, polishing it with his bib. I drew back into the cushions of my chair, not out of fear, but surprise. Surprise and the realization that I could do that as well. That I _had_ done it. "Jesus..."

"What surprises you?" He lifted a brow, its whiskers stark black against the white of his face. If it had been another time, another place, under different circumstances, I would have thought his wide-eyed feline face to be adorable...the kind of face you'd expect to see staring at you from a petshop window. Any other time I would have laughed.

"I don't know," I admitted. "It just seems..." for lack of a better word I said strange. "So this is what a werecat looks like?"

"We have three forms," he said. "This is the true Jellicle embodiment. Our other two are of a regular cat and that of our human selves. This," he held up his hand, displaying a finely-sharpened set of white claws, "comes into best use when it comes to fighting."

"Fighting?"

"Have you been listening?" His voice bordered on sharp. "Our kind has been decimated. It is our duty to fight and kill werewolves and vampires while rebuilding our own race."

"But there has to be more to it than that!"

"I'm afraid there isn't, Master Blakeney. We are werecats. We kill to survive. Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten, as Jack London said. That is all. There is no higher meaning or hidden truth. We are what we are." His face remained grave and serious, a stare that irritated me. "We are Jellicles, and it is our duty to kill the true destruction of the world: werewolves and vampires."

I remembered reading about vampires when I was younger. I had a sort of fascination with them, Anne Rice's novels especially. I remembered Lestat, and the distinct admiration I held for him after I'd finished the series of five books. It was all true. Now I had to kill them. "So Anne Rice, Bram Stoker...all that is true?"

He nodded, if only slightly. "In a sense. Bram Stoker I'm afraid was far from precise, but Anne Rice, however, is disturbingly accurate in her tales." In his own indirect way he sounded accusing. "Makes one wonder, doesn't it?"

"It can't be that simple," I grumbled. "Why do we have to increase our numbers? What point do we serve in living? Killing vampires and werewolves I can understand, if they're as evil as you say they are. But...us?"

Bustopher's whisker's flattened. "Still a kitten, and already you are questioning our existence." He laughed again. "Study philosophy, my dear boy." I noticed he had an odd habit when he laughed. His black whip-like tail lashed back and forth, seeming to possess a life of its own. I couldn't believe it. Here was the proof, sitting before me, and I still failed to accept the truth.

"I can't..." I moved my lips to say more, but the sudden choke of emotion killed any other sound.

Bustopher grinned knowingly, but said nothing, as his hand reached out for the piano. His fingers struck a few keys. The notes rang out over the room, sending a chill up my spine. The reason was unclear to me, but those few notes sounded unearthly familiar. It frightened me. His other hand moved to the keys, and his eyes were closed as though in a trance as his fingers moved across them. The sound it produced was a beautiful tune that had an overwhelming effect on me. My heart began to speed with its clear, strong notes, and before I knew it I had torn off my jacket and was dancing wildly across the tiled floor.

That was even stranger. I had never danced anything outside a little ballroom in my life. I was doing kicks, splits, and leaps that I never would have thought my stiff tendons and muscles would have allowed. The back of my mind was panicked, screaming that each time I high kicked, leaped, or even _flipped_ something would snap and I would fall to the ground broken. But it didn't happen. The rest of my mind was given over completely to the music...the music I had never heard before, but it seemed as though I knew every note, every step. I didn't even notice Bustopher at the piano. I danced.

And when the music suddenly stopped, I collapsed, heart racing, breath ragged, my clothes drenched in perspiration. I grabbed the arm of the chair and pulled myself into it, straining as my body suddenly ached all over. It hurt to move, to breathe. "What..." I gasped. "Was that?"

Bustopher seemed just as shaken, and wiped his brow with the bib. "That, Master Blakeney." He sounded out of breath as well. "Was The Jellicle Ball."

"The what?"

"Call it our only holiday. Jellicle werecats meet once a year to celebrate. We dance, much in the manner as you just did." He laughed at that. I found nothing amusing about the feeling of my limbs ripped out of their sockets.

"I don't have that kind of flexibility," I gasped. "How did I do that? And earlier," I went on, mind flooded with dizziness. "Earlier a dog attacked me, but I flipped it off as though it were a fly. Where did I get that strength?!"

"All Jellicles can do that, Master Blakeney, even if you have never stretched or lifted weights a day in your life. It's a good thing, too." He settled back, folding his hands in his lap again, his feline eyes settling on them.

"Why?"

"You are a kitten in Jellicle society, and will be until you have seen your third Jellicle Ball. At that celebration you will perform a solo, and will from then on be seen as an adult."

"Solo? You mean we have to sing?" I asked, bewildered.

"Or dance," Bustopher nodded. "Whichever you prefer."

"But I can't sing," I was surprised at the shakiness of my voice, how childlike and helpless I sounded. "I can't dance!"

"You just did," he mused. "Jellicles have the natural ability to sing and dance, no matter what your training. A Jellicle who dances on Broadway may be no better than one who works on computers all day. A mere hour or so of training, and you will be able to sing with the likes of Michael Ball."

I felt my spine stiffen. I'd heard Michael Ball sing.

"No," I snapped, rising to my feet. I wiped my forehead on my sleeve. "You're selling this to me like some fanciful dream! It isn't real!"

But the cat staring at me opened its mouth, showing a worn but clear pair of fangs. "How can you say that? Your father was a Jellicle. Your dear sweet mother was a Jellicle. I am, as are several who inhabit this city in our tribe."

"Tribe?"

"Yes. Twenty of us or so as of now. We have a leader. The same Jellicle blood runs in your veins. You have shifted and seen your enemies. How can you still deny it?" He rose to his feet, replacing his pence-nez with a sniff of contempt. Another strange shift, and suddenly he was a man again: fully clothed and fully rounded. It was as though nothing had changed.

"I'll be d***ed if I'm going to throw away all I've been raised into for this storybook filth!" Clenching my fist I stormed from the room, throwing the door open myself.

"You're making a mistake, Hunter!" I heard Bustopher's voice behind me. I ignored it. I was too angry. If I believed this nonsense that was being served to me from a dead man's letter and one of his fatcat friends, if I threw away all that I believed for this supernatural realm of shapeshifting...there were no words to convey my thoughts. It was wrong. It was all a lie. It had to be. I didn't know why...I couldn't think straight as I stormed down that hallway, into the elevator, punched the button that would take me to the ground level, and leaned my head back to close my eyes.

Jellicles...shifting...duty...names...it didn't make any sense, yet it flowed in my mind like a river of vile putrescence, tainting my thoughts no matter what I tried to run to. Bustopher's words were everywhere I turned, tearing the world as I knew it apart.

"Humans are only pawns to the supernatural beings," he had said. "They make up the majority of the earth, but have little idea of what is actually going on. We do not belong with them. We Jellicles are above them. They are the sheep, and we are the odd blacks who keep ourselves hidden."

It seemed forever that the elevator plunged downward, pulling me away from God and the respect I had for him. Perhaps that was what I was afraid of. I had never publicly believed in God, as I knew, but these words that creatures such as vampires and werewolves existed, that evil such as they existed, shattered that glass wall of fear that was my only relationship with Him. Heaviside, not Heaven, was what Bustopher said was my paradise after death. The Everlasting Cat, not God, was who I should fear. Why this bothered me, I don't know.

At the door of the Park Avenue penthouse the doorman offered me a chauffeured limousine. This time I accepted, and in no time a four-window gray car pulled up to the curve. I got in, grateful for the silence, and let my head fall back against the leather seats. Still, I couldn't find any peace. "Fifth and Broadway," I told the driver. My head rolled to the side, blankly watching the streets pass by. Several passed before I realized we were heading away from my home. I looked to the driver's seat sharply.

"Driver!" I demanded, rising from my seat and, stooping over, groped my way up to the front. A sudden slam on the brakes and I went crashing to the carpeted floor. Looking up, I saw a stern set of dark eyes and pence-nez in the rearview mirror. "Bustopher!"

"You'd better sit down, Master Blakeney," he rumbled in that sarcastic tone of his. I stared hard at him, outraged, and climbed back to my feet.

"Were are you taking me?" My voice was quiet, but trembling with anger.

His answer was simple, light. "Somewhere you need to see."

"Let me out!" I reached for the handle, but the doors had been locked from the control up front. Bustopher, B.J. Jones, continued to drive calmly, rounding corners with practiced ease. "Sit down, Hunter. We'll get through this as painlessly as possible."

I sat down, seething. What right had he to force me into this existence? If I wanted to live out my being without all this lunacy why couldn't I? Perhaps I was afraid of the truth. Perhaps I was still confused and tired after the week's past events. Perhaps I just wanted everything to be normal again. Werewolves, vampires, werecats...imagine how this sounded to me then. A lot of nonsense that used to keep me up at night when I was younger, holding a flashlight and staring with wide eyes at the window, an open book of horror tales lying on the floor. Now it was being sold to me as reality, that I was a part of it, and had a role to carry out. I spent the majority of that short ride wishing I would wake up from a bad dream.

There is no cure for knowledge. Once the mind is open to an idea, it can never be shut out. Even if Bustopher had let me alone, allowed me to reject my heritage, I could never forget the things I had been told. I could live out my life as a normal human if I chose, but would always have these Jellicle notions to think about, to brood over, and eventually go mad. I suppose that left me no choice but to accept these things. Bustopher must have known that.

He stopped at the front of a large square one-floor building that looked more like a storage warehouse. I raised my head in alarm. I recognized this place. "A homeless shelter?"

"Not just any homeless shelter," Bustopher said as he let me out, opening the door from outside. I got out sourly, considering the act of running away. "Jenny's Sanctuary." His words echoed my thoughts as I gazed up at the sign, the words painted in large red letters along with the picture of a fat yellow cat. "Along with you," Bustopher edged me forward, taking up his cane and hat and striding boldly into the building. Definitely an aristocrat. I followed him, not knowing what I expected to find, for him to show me. But if it was anything to help me reject this existence, I would have welcomed it. I didn't want to be a Jellicle.

But what I found was utterly different. The building inside was one large room, the floor strewn with low cots covered in messed blankets. The air was hot and humid, the only circulation coming from four enormous fans placed in each corner of the building, each one as big as I. A number of patrons were lined at a serving window, who from behind it a plump aproned woman dished out soup and sandwiches.

"What is this?" I demanded.

"This," he tapped his cane haughtily as we strolled across the hard cement floor. "Is what you will come to know as one of the major meeting places we Jellicles keep."

"This?" I reeled. "This filthy warehouse?"

"Actually, Jenny keeps it quite clean." We stopped, and with his cane he gestured to the plump women behind the counter. "Call her Jennyanydots."

"Is she...?"

"Oh yes. Very much so." He adjusted his pence-nez and glanced over the room, grunting in satisfaction. "Ah, yes. See that table over there? It would do you some good to introduce yourself...though I doubt there will be the need." He laughed, and before I could question further he was strutting away in the manner of a cock among his coop. _Peacock_, I thought. He made his way towards the woman he had called Jenny. I watched them a moment. Putting it lightly, she seemed happy to see him. At a loss I turned my attention to the table.

There were four people sitting at the round table. Three men, a woman, and a cat. A card game was going on between them. I approached, but slowly. The lot of them together looked nothing more than common rabble swept up from the streets of Manhattan. One man was an African, skin the color of chocolate, complete with shades and tank top stained white t-shirt. He was the biggest of the group. On his left, facing me as I approached, looked the oldest: a somber-faced lanky man with shoulder-length sandy-blonde hair. A woman sat opposite the African, a brilliant red mane of hair tumbling under a black bandanna that was tied over her forehead. The fourth human at the table seemed about my age, perhaps a year or two younger, and was by far the one most likely to be a hoodlum among them, had his slouched profile to me as he looked at the African. His hair fell in a messy shock over his back, filthy blonde. A cat sat near his side, but I barely noticed it.

"Are you helping him cheat, Alonzo?" I heard the African ask as I approached. I heard a deep-throated "No" follow shortly. The youth had his back to me, so I assumed without thinking about it that he had answered. I stopped perhaps three paces from the table, folding my hands behind my back.

"Pardon me..."

Almost immediately four—five, counting the cat—faces looked up at me sharply. I felt a sudden chill sweep over me that accompanied their looks. They were sizing me up. My mouth fell open, unsure of what to say.

"I-I'm Hunter Blakeney..."

"We know," the African said lightly, seeming uninterested as he draw a cigarette from his pocket and set it between his teeth. He gathered up the cards and set about to shuffling them. "John's little brat."

I felt my face harden at that. "Excuse me, sir, but do you have any idea who I am?" I guessed I had grown accustomed to saying that after seventeen years. Otherwise I would have seen how much I looked and sounded like an a**.

"We know who you are," he said again, the gleam of his black shades hiding whether his eyes met mine or not. "And frankly we don't care. Ranks and money don't apply here."

"Apparently," I scoffed, glancing at the three of them.

"Then what're you doin' here, Rich Boy?" the youth giggled as he glanced through his cards. "Descendin' from the golden throne above t' see how the peasants are doin' in financin' yer parties with our taxes?"

His laugh, the carefree recklessness in it, irritated me from the start. Even moreso when he added insult after insult. If I hadn't still been worried about my image I would have slugged him. I wanted to. "What's your name?" I snapped.

"I have a lotta names," he said. "Which one ya want?"

"The one you want on your grave marker."

The cocky big-mouthed youth looked up at me with those wide gray eyes, fierce with challenge. "Arright pal, you and me, out back. Now." He slapped his hand of cards down on the table. "Full house!"

The red-headed woman to his right threw her cards down, growling sourly. "Beat him up good for me, will ya?" She glanced up at me, setting her chin in her hands. The burly dark-skinned African glanced over his shades at the youth.

"No one's gonna fight anyone," he rumbled in authority. His blank stare from behind the concealing shades seemed fixed on the youth, who hadn't a care about it. "Introduce yerselves like half-decent Jellicles."

For a moment the youth looked astonished. "You mean...? This guy...?" He pointed a finger at me, reeling in disbelief when the African nodded. Of course, I'd almost forgot. These people were supposed werecats as well. Immediately the youth leaned back in his chair, brushing back the untamed sandy-blonde strands of his hair and grinning in that reckless style that I'll admit was very handsome and I wish I had. "Rum Tum Tugger," he stated proudly, spreading his arms wide. "I don't gotta real human name 'cause I don't need one."

"Bombalurina," the women politely extended her hand. I took it and kissed the knuckles ceremoniously, staring at her blue eyes. "I'll keep my human name to myself until I get t' know ya better, sweetheart. Nothing personal."

I nodded.

"Skimbleshanks," the oldest, and quietest so far, man shuffling the cards stated simply. "Geoffrey St. John. I knew your father. Good man." I didn't feel the need to respond to that. The final dark-skinned confirmed my suspicions when he said he was the Jellicle Leader.

"Admetus, or George deVictor." He finally removed his shades. I expected his concealed eyes to be some glowing yellow or bloodshot crimson, but they were brown, matching his skin. "Until further notice you'll be gettin' instructions from me when it involves werecat affairs."

My mouth fell open, but no sound came out. The woman smiled, giggling slightly at my obvious astonishment. "Hunter Blakeney...New York's most eligible bachelor and richest teen...who is also a werecat, spending his nights fightin' werewolves and vampires to protect his kind under the name of...of...? Say, what's your other name, honey?"

"Munkustrap," I said hesitantly. "I...uh...came here with Bustopher."

Tugger laughed. "Money and class...we need another one o' you fatcats around."

"Shut up, Tugger."

I blinked. No one's mouth had moved. That is, none of the human-shaped werecats around me. Then my eyes landed on the brown-shaded cat sitting on the table, flicking its dark tail. His round gold eyes were staring up at me. An intelligence shone in them...a glint no normal cat could have held. Of course...

"Alonzo," the cat said. Only he didn't quite "say" it. The sound was clear as my own, but the cat's mouth never moved. I could only wonder...

"We're goin' on a Hunt tomorrow night," Admetus said, dealing the cards out again. "Think we should bring 'em along, Alonzo?" He looked at the cat. The brown feline splotched in black and gold leaped gracefully onto the African's shoulder, wrapping about his neck as though a fur coat.

"I dunno, Metus. He's young. I doubt he's even changed more than once yet."

"Tchah," Tugger growled, fiddling his hand. "Rich Boy wouldn't know a vampire if it came up and bit 'em."

"He's older than you," Bombalurina spat. "If we're gonna Hunt, let's make it a good one."

My eyes landed on Skimbleshanks for a moment. He hadn't said anything for the most part. His silence puzzled me, but I wasn't able to ponder for long before Admetus drew me back.

"He can come along," he growled, a final authoritative note to kill any further argument. "That is, if he thinks he's up to it...?"

I remembered the Hunts Bustopher had described to me. "A gathering of Jellicles for an all-out attack on vampires or werewolves. Very dangerous." Tugger's reckless gray eyes met mine again, their shining energy accompanying his wide toothy grin. He was daring me, I saw. What did he think? That because I had money I couldn't fend for myself? That I couldn't learn to fight? I was as much a werecat as he, older even. Hunter Blakeney wasn't going to be intimidated by a street punk, even if he was right about me. "I'll go," I said firmly to Admetus. He nodded solemnly. I had no idea how much I would regret that decision until later on.

That evening I sat with Bustopher in the study of my penthouse. Soft music from _Carmen_ played from the radio on what was once my father's desk. Bustopher and I sat in the thickly-cushioned red chairs near the empty fireplace, conversing quietly. His eyes roved in expertise over the knife my father had left me. I'd asked him over to examine it after our encounter with Admetus and the others. He came with all eagerness.

"Looks to me like a hunting knife," he said, his round human face. "I've never seen the likes of it before." He glanced up. "John's letter said nothing about it?"

"No. Only that you would know what it is."

Bustopher laughed, setting the knife gingerly on the round table between us. "With your father's resources I imagine he had extensive ways to get ahold of Jellicle artifacts. Hold onto that. It must be ancient."

I nodded, staring at the light gleaming from the bone handle and metal blade. "How much was left after the Great War?"

It took a moment for him to answer. He leaned back, folding his hands, staring at the fancy swords crossed over the mantle. "According to legend, barely anything. A hundred or so werecats with a handful of songs, running throughout Europe hoping to escape with their lives."

"You mention these songs a lot," I said. "What are they? What purpose do they serve?"

He laughed. "You sound so much like your father when you say that." He cleared his throat, immediately continuing. "Look in his book. I helped him gather what songs we knew and write them down inside it. Those and a few other items of interest."

I looked at the thin journal-like book in my lap. It reeked of dust and leather, painting images of my father in my mind as the smells wafted up from the fireplace draft. On its own my hand reached across its soft cover, my fingers tapping the tune of the music. "I tried reading it. I can't understand a word."

"Ah, yes. John had it encoded in case the maid should pick it up. Quite clever, actually."

I slowly opened the book, careful lest the pages tear under my hands. "What's the code?"

"It's extensive. I shall explain it to you later."

This denying of my request only increased my curiosity. I glanced over the scrawl-filled pages. The letters were easily recognizable...A to Z, but their order, the way they were arranged, made no sense. I had sudden thoughts that my father had so much he didn't reveal to me. He'd lied about so much. He'd taken me to church, singing songs to God only for me now to discover that Heaviside and the Everlasting Cat were my religious idols. Many were the nights I listened to his muffled voice converse with the manservant downstairs when he went out. I thought it was business affairs that drew him away. Had he really been going out to join Admetus and the others in fighting vampires or werewolves? How come I had never noticed? Because I never cared enough to...

"_Jellicle Cats come out tonight._

Jellicle Cats come one, come all.

The Jellicle Moon is shining bright.

Jellicles come to the Jellicle Ball."

Bustopher's fine bass voice rang over the quiet of _Carmen_, every note on perfect key. I was astonished at how much I wasn't surprised. "One of the songs?" I asked. He nodded.

"One of the more popular ones. Some cats write their own about themselves."

I chuckled. "You?"

I smiled warmly and nodded. "Yes. I didn't write it, of course."

"Can I hear it?"

"It's in the book. I will get the code for you in the morning."

Silence reigned for a full quarter of an hour. I finally broke it.

"What was my father's other name?"

Bustopher had set his chin in his hand, fiddling with his pence-nez, when I asked. It surprised me, that I had to ask another man about my father. Something as simple as a name I should have known. And when I brought into the light that Bustopher possibly knew more about my father than I did. His answer shocked me.

"I don't know."

Again I was denied a request. Again I longed more to know.

"How could you not?"

"He never confided it in me."

"But...I thought...you two were—?"

"Friends?" he laughed, rubbing his forehead. "Let me tell you something, Hunter. Your father and I knew we were Jellicles. We were also at the peak of society, you understand. Vampires and werewolves may be despicable, but not stupid. They watched us. They couldn't prove it, but a coven of vampires has strong suspicions that your father was a Jellicle. If they'd seen us together often, they would have all the more reason to be suspicious. To know less about each other was to protect us both."

"Why did they know him? And not you?"

"Your father was one of the best fighters Admetus had ever known. The vampires and werewolves knew his Jellicle identity well."

"But you didn't."

"It's a strange world, Hunter."

He left not long after. I sat for hours in the study, drinking in the music of _Carmen_ over and over, fondling the knife and the book. I must have fallen asleep, for the next thing I knew the radio was shut off, sunlight poured in the study windows, and I had a horrible neck ache from sleeping in that sitting position.

A strange loneliness welled up inside me. Whether it be Bustopher's leaving or the thought that my father was still a mystery... When I came out, hair messed and clothes wrinkled, the maid nervously handed my a sealed envelope. I didn't care to notice if she was still afraid of me. I took it, already knowing it was the code, and with my father's book locked myself in the study. I read the book cover to cover, translating the dozen or so songs and tidbits of information. They were about the past, battles, artifacts, that the knife was from thirteenth century Scotland. I read it intensely, fixing it in my mind, and this was only the beginning of my interest in Jellicle history.


	3. Munkustrap: WereCats 3

****

Munkustrap – Part Three

It started the same way as the first time: a strange, disturbing, barely painful tingle in my hands that slowly began to spread. Pins and needles traveled up my arms, spreading down my chest and back. It reached my gut, its tiny claws of fire hurtling through my blood. Then it attacked my gut. I cried out, grabbing at my stomach. My insides were on fire! I fell to my knees, writhing. Out of pure fear at the transformation I clenched my eyes shut. Admetus's voice rumbled in my throbbing ears.

"You'll get used to it. It only hurts the first few times."

But I didn't believe him. My head swam with the tingling, my eyes stabbed in tiny pinpricks of pain. My gut contracted and I wanted to retch, but all I could manage was a dry cough. My clothes suddenly felt tight around me, the collar of my shirt choking, the fabric of my pants threatening to tear...

"Don't worry. It's taken care of."

And it was. As soon as it began it stopped. The pressure against my chest and waist was gone, and gushing along with the pounding blood in my veins came the feeling of power. It wiped away the pain. And it was so sudden, this intoxicating high, so intense I cried out a little. My fists clenched against the wooden floor, only they were no longer fists. Enormous black hands supported my weight, long white claws gouging the floor. A long rope-like object whipped against my back uncontrollably. I clenched my teeth together, tongue prodding the new odd shape of my mouth, pressing gingerly against the hanging daggers of my fangs.

"It's over," a gentle hand rested on my shoulder. "Open your eyes, Munkustrap."

I opened them, and for the first time I was able to drink in the world with my werecat senses.

Heaviside, it was as though I had just been born. The dark interior of Jenny's Sanctuary was bright as noon in Central Park. My eyes couldn't stay in one place long enough to study the extensive detail which was revealed to me from each object in the room. My gaze whipped left and right, looking at everything. I was blind before tonight! Even something as simple as a crumpled paper wrapper beside a trashcan I was captivated by. The gleam of the moonlight on its foil side, as bright as the sun. The perfect mixture of and transition between a smooth surface and a wrinkled one. The scent of the sandwich that had inhabited it hours earlier. I felt my triangle cat ears rotate back as Bombalurina whistled quietly.

"Nice..." she nodded her head as I turned to look at her. She was indeed a sight. Not only having gained about a foot in height from the transformation, the fiery red fur that contrasted the white of her face and chest accented the lovely curves of her female shape, which remained remarkably human despite the feline face that grinned at me. "Have a look." She gestured to a full-length mirror that had been set into the wall of the shelter.

Bustopher had escorted me back to the sanctuary as soon as the sun fell, and though he somewhat approved of me going on this Hunt, he wanted no part of it himself. Admetus agreed that he was too old. I had arrived last, a gathering of people already present. Most of them I recognized: Admetus, Bombalurina, Skimble, and the ever-grinning Tugger. Alonzo was there as well, though in his human shape he looked nothing more than a heavily-scarred Mexican. He was the first to change.

I could describe the process as both disturbing and beautiful, and that's all. Unless one sees it there are no words to convey the simultaneous happenings. Alonzo's face elongated and sprouted fur all at once. There was no slow grotesque process in which the human skin tears and peels back, revealing a cat beneath as the movies will portray it. Rather it was quite graceful. A matter of seconds, and it was done. There were no sickening noises of bones shortening, lengthening, or joints switching directions. There were no spurts of blood or cries of agony as ears shifted and tails sprouted. Not even a wince when the shirt and jeans Alonzo wore seemed to dissipate, leaving thick brown, gold, and black fur as his only covering. If I had blinked the entire process would have been missed. Now I stared in wide-eyed astonishment at the werecat, dwarfed by his enormous size and the hard golden stare that landed on me. "Get on with it," his lips growled.

I was even more astonished at myself. It was hard to believe that the cat-like creature staring back at me in the mirror was actually my reflection. The creature blinked when I blinked. It opened its mouth in surprise when I gasped. It ran its tongue over its fangs when I felt the prick of my own. Its ears and whiskers moved endlessly, turning each way in reaction to the slightest shift in the air around me. Nothing in the building changed without me noticing.

And if Munkustrap truly meant "many stripe," then it fit perfectly. My mind held the image of my mother in the photograph as I looked at my coat. The color of silver metal, with bold black stripes snaking through across my back, flanks, arms, tail, and face. Around my eyes and muzzle it lightened to almost white, but not entirely. There was a like effect on my hands and feet. Starting at my wrists or ankles it darkened to black. My eyes were gold, slitted black, like all the others'.

"Ain't you handsome," Bombalurina whistled.

I had then realized my mistake in my evaluation of her. I had assumed she was a full-grown woman, twenty-five at least. But now that I was closer, and accompanied by these feline senses, I saw that she was actually close to my own age. Perhaps a few years younger, even.

"Looks a lot like his dad," Admetus mused behind me. I turned to look at him.

Admetus was the embodiment of divinity in his werecat form. Well over six and a half feet tall, his fur was the purest white, splotched along his flanks and side with ginger-brown markings. His face was wide and open, looking entirely different than the chocolate-skinned African he was when we first gathered here in the deserted shelter. His burliness showed still in his full, thick muscles that moved like liquid steel under his coat. The mane that tumbled long and thick over his shoulders was colored a gentle red tinged in black that looked extremely exotic against his white fur. His arms were crossed over his barrel chest, and the smile on his face looked approving as he glanced me over.

By now all of us had made the change. I'm not sure what drew me to him, but right off I spotted Tugger. Spotted is a good word, as well. His fur was a fine pitch black that shone under the streaming light from outside, but even more pleasing to look at were the jaguar-patterned spots that covered his chest, wrists, ankles, and tail. His face and mane were lighter, a mix of tan and white with darker stripes. If I hadn't considered the act a tad off the normal, I would have called him handsome. The other werecat present was Skimbleshanks. Nothing stood out as spectacular about his Jellicle form save for a nicely-patterned coat of orange with brown stripes that rivaled my own. His forearms lightened drastically to silver all the way to his paws, which had they been cleaned and groomed properly would have looked quite lovely. The last was Jennyanydots, who stood still in her human form, apron complete, holding a bound strand of plants in her hand. I looked at them questioningly.

"It's what made ya change," Admetus answered as though reading my questioning thoughts. "Until ya get used to it, you'll need something to help ya."

"What is it?" I asked.

"Catnip."

Behind me Tugger roared in astonishment. "Catnip?!" Apparently the plant had been used on him as well. The way his tail constantly flicked and his feet shifting his weight suggested that this change not only brought the feeling of power to him, but a boundless energy mixed with that of his human self. That's all I thought about it.

Jenny gathered her apron, depositing the plant into her pockets. "Just one sniff and it will turn a Jellicle to their werecat form, whether they like it or not." She smiled at me gently. "You'll learn."

Skimble alone among us seemed the only one not roused by the anticipation. "Kittens shouldn't be allowed on Hunts," he said darkly. "Or females."

"Hey," Bombalurina shot him a glare. "Watch it, pal."

"I've been on Hunts," he continued to Admetus, ignoring the angry eyes. I found myself glaring at him, vexed that he would try to deny me this chance. "It's no thing fit for young'uns or ladies."

"I know what can happen," Admetus countered boldly. "I've been on 'em as well. Better the kits learn young than never. They're coming. An' as for Bal..." He laughed. "If you doubt her fighting abilities then go'n'try to tackle her." That ended the conversation, and with a salute of his tail Admetus led us off.

My dreams were reality as I plunged through the alleys, drunk on the smoothness with which my muscles glided, barely able to keep my mind on task with all the wondrous items around me. The old Hunter Blakeney would have repulsed at being near such filth, but the cat Munkustrap was amazed at the things that inhabited the alleys. The slightest rustle of paper, a dangle of string, a scurrying cockroach drew all attention, making the power inside me want nothing more than to pounce on them, swat them, then let them go only to catch them again. I was seventeen and acting the absurd manner of seven. Indeed, I was a kitten.

I'm certain Tugger was feeling these same childish urges as he ran alongside me through the alleys, as wide-eyed and curious and I, snapping at flies as we bolted along. His belligerent cockiness had been swept away in the wonder of the prowl. The energy radiating from the older cats around us swept us up with them, our excitement mounting and combining into a heavy wave, gaining power and momentum as we ran.

Skimbleshanks' dissent had not stopped once we exited the Sanctuary. He took care in reminding Admetus that a group of cats running together would surely draw attention from any watching enemies. Admetus didn't acknowledge that he pointed out the truth, but indirectly corrected it. We split up into pairs: Bombalurina and Admetus, Skimble and Alonzo, and Tugger and I, so that one pair covered the rooftops, the second scouting ahead, and the last bringing up the rear...respectively.

I still had no idea what it was we were supposed to be Hunting, or even how this Hunt worked. But I followed the examples of the older cats as we went along. The city grew even darker, filthier, less populated as we delved into an area I'd never been. I had no reason to. We arrived at a section of boat landings that looked in badly need of repair. Crates were stacked four high, draped in nets and canvas sheets. Admetus rallied us and shifted to our werecat forms. I hesitated.

"Concentrate," he said, patting my feline head. "It'll come easy enough."

I shut my eyes, picturing the creature I'd seen in the mirror not an hour ago, concentrating the same way I had the previous night. When the front of my head began to hurt I felt it. I opened my eyes, and the ground beneath my paws jumped away from me. I gasped and looked up, meeting Tugger at the same level. He giggled.

Alonzo returned a few minutes later from wherever it was he had been sent. Leaping over the crates we crouched behind without so much as a sound, he reported quickly: "They're here. Four of 'em. They're searchin' the crates an' gotta guard on his knees."

"They?" I asked quietly.

"Werewolves." Admetus didn't give me time to think about it before he was issuing orders. "Bal, Lonz, an' Skimble go in 'round the left side and wait fer my signal. The kittens'll come with me." And once again we divided.

I can't say I felt safe or even eager as we slipped in through a barred window that Admetus easily snapped with his bare paws. The warehouse building was dark and damp, the only light coming from the far end that faced the open shipping docks. Admetus's white tail was a banner in the darkness as Tugger and I followed it, forcing ourselves not to swat at the moths and birds that swooped from the rafters. My eyes were darting in every direction except forward, half-expecting at any moment for a vampire or werewolf to explode from the darkness. Like a child I clung close to Admetus's flank, my shoulder brushing the thick brown fur there.

He stopped suddenly on the winding passage through and over stacked crates and machinery, Tugger and I doing likewise. His tail raised, slightly curved forward in a rigid position that imitated a scorpion's. His ears strained forward, and only when I copied his stance did I hear it.

Voices.

His tail tip waved and beckoned us to follow him. His steps were slower this time, as stealthy and silent as the cats we were. With his tail he gestured us low, then himself peeked over a crate, the top half of his face illuminated by the light coming from the other side. Curiosity grasping us like true kittens, both Tugger and I strained out necks to see. The scene spread out on the open concrete floor of the warehouse was directly from a James Bond video.

Three men and a woman, all dressed in the black-leather tattered-jeans style of street gang members. Their heads were covered in bandannas, and on each bare shoulder of the black men was a strange tattoo. My feline eyes picked up the red dye easily. The pictures were that of a simplified bone, a large chunk taken from one side as though bitten off. Only the female had her limbs covered in a black leather jacket. Her eyes were hidden by shades, and from what I could tell her features seemed pleasantly Asian. But the gun she held in her hand, the scowl on her mouth, directing the three men in lifting a large crate, dimmed any pleasant beauty she may have possessed. And even more chilling: a human guard lay to the side, hands and feet tied as he watched the men lift an enormous crate from a stack and set it before the female leader.

"Open it," she snarled. Immediately the three rough-looking gang men who all bore the same tattoo on their bare shoulders cracked the crate open. The woman lifted the lid and reached in, pointing her gun to the ceiling. She withdrew from the crate another weapon the size of a broomstick.

"Semis..." the guard gasped. "How did—?"

"How'd we get it by the authorities?" the sharp female snapped at him. "I know a cat."

The guard clearly didn't understand. "Huh?"

She grinned, lowering her shades to glare at him. "Prepare yerself, human."

A shift in her features, and the shades clattered to the ground as she changed as swiftly as we had. In the woman's place, and in the place where her three gang members stood, four enormous werewolves glowered. The she-wolf was by far the biggest, her fur blacker than Tugger's without even that glossy sheen. Two of the males with her were silvery-gray with the brown and black tinges of timber wolves, and the smallest of the group a scruffy brown. All of them were larger than I, and all of them possessing jaws large enough to crack a human skull easily.

"My God!" the guard screamed, scrambling desperately to get to his feet and for his life run. I could only barely comprehend his fear. The sight of the enormous female werewolf dug icy claws of fear into my heart, and I'm sure if it hadn't been for that undying confidence and feeling of power I would have lost my nerve. I had power, too. The guard had nothing...

In one smooth movement the she-wolf raised the gun and shot the guard dead. I clapped a furry hand over my mouth, grabbing at the stiff whiskers, and turned my face away. But the image was sharpened by darkness as I shut my eyes. My feline senses had taken it all in, missing nothing...the horror in his eyes, the reflection of the gun's barrel in them, the perspiration drenching under his cap, the scent of acid that seeped through his pores...pure fear. Indeed, I smelled his fear. It burned my nose, stinging it. The scent grew even hotter and more intense as the guard's blood spilled from his wounds.

Blood...I could have the lifespan of a vampire and never know a scent that disturbs me like it. Hot, stinging, arousing, it twists my stomach in such knots sometimes I think I'll retch just by the smell of an uncooked steak. It's repulsive, this scent of blood. But it draws me as well. Enticing, alluring, I smelled that guard's blood pouring from his wound and wanted to tear at it, make the gunshot holes larger. I wanted to sink my feline teeth into his soft pink flesh and feel my fangs slice through it, ripping back long strips of meat to swallow. Heaviside, it's horrible. It's when I feel these sensations that I actually find myself pitying those vampires.

I tried to block the scent of it from my nose by covering it with my hand, though it worked only slightly. Eyes clenched shut, I saw the guard fall again and again. The wolf had slain him on his knees, an innocent caught up in the affairs of supernatural creatures. My heart ached for him, an immense pity.

But the she-wolf went undeterred. "Get the crates, we're gettin' outta here."

Then all Hell broke loose.

A sound came from Admetus's throat like no other sound I'd ever heard. It rang in my ears, battering my eardrums. I could closely call it a caterwaul, yet even that does not fit. Think of a cat's yeowl, magnify it five times, mix it with a woman's scream and a dog howl and you may have something close to the sound Admetus roared. He charged forward like a mad thing, the three other werecats of our Hunt scrambling over the crates to our left. I found myself snarling immensely and dashed out alongside Admetus, Tugger in suit. If I was thinking anything at that moment, I don't remember it.

The werewolves whirled and were upon us like a hurricane. At four against six it seemed obvious that we would win, but I had completely underestimated the power of the wolves.

I use terms such as 'win' when talking about battle. But I'm fooling myself. The truth is that among immortals and shapeshifters no battle is ever truly won. It may be temporarily postponed, but even if the enemy is disintegrated there is only a matter of time before grudges rise again and the bloodshed resumes. It never ends. Even if Jellicles were to destroy all vampires and werewolves—a task I'm quite sure is impossible—the fighting would never stop. Experience has taught me this.

Werecat and werewolf fighting styles are drastically different. Werewolves move in packs. They work together. But Jellicles are aloof. We fought alone, helping each other when possible, using sheer strength and ferocity to defeat our enemies rather than strategy. Or, that's how it was under Admetus's leadership. I wouldn't come to realize this until much later. But in this situation, when we outnumbered the enemy, our style was ideal. I like to think Admetus knew that.

A soldier may fight in a million wars the world over and still never experience the fury of werewolves and Jellicles. An anger grew inside me, such an ancient and unmatchable rage that I didn't know a single body could feel. Here is where I must take extra care in description, for no human words I know come close to describing this anger. The nearest I can think of is _rach'arl_, the Bloodlust, a word of Jellicle origin that I found among the pages of my father's journal. Perhaps close, but not entirely the word I think to portray this anger. I wanted to tear the throat and slash of bowels of the world itself to watch the blood pour forth, tainting the sea and heavens.

And the others must have been feeling this same anger. Black lips pulled up over gleaming white fangs, muzzles drawn together in a maze of twisted wrinkles, brows knotted over golden eyes that burned in primal fires, ivory claws unveiled from limbs whose muscles and sinewy tendons bulged like ropes... and the wolves were even worse.

We clashed in a sound to drown the titans. I knew no nervousness, no fear, only that overwhelming _rach'arl_ that pushed all thought from my mind except those wanting to kill my enemies. I was at Admetus's flank when my legs sprang, as though released from a tremendous pressure, and carried me snarling into the oncoming pack.

What amazed me was how slow these werewolves were. Powerful, no doubt, but with their size came lethargy. To be caught in their grip would have meant certain death, but they had to catch us first.

In what was perhaps instinct only I leaped for the smallest of the pack. Admetus did as well. "_Reduce their numbers if you can_..." he might have said. Or perhaps he just wanted to make things easier for me.

Admetus snarled and dove for the wolf's throat, and in a quick turn to dodge his feet I whirled, attacking the wolf's side with all claws and fangs. The scent of blood spurred on the effect of the _rach'arl_, so in fact I didn't notice Admetus's abandoning to attack another. Blood was already flowing from the wolf's chest where Admetus's claws had gashed him. I think that if he hadn't already been wounded I never would have killed him. Rather, the other way around. I attacked, blinded by bloodlust. Diving, whirling, leaping, snapping, my movements were but a silver blur, too fast for even me to follow. But the werewolf wasn't defenseless.

He was perhaps twice my size, a foot taller, claws and fangs just as sharp as mine. He snarled and swiped for me, but his sluggishness compared to my dexterity as a cat were those of gazelles to sloths. I whirled, leaping from his chest, gouging with my back claws only to turn in mid-air and fall back onto him. My eyes were clenched shut as my jaws found his throat, and I bit. Instantaneously scalding hot blood filled my mouth, making my jaws salivate with longing. But I was stunned, unable to move, only my jaws closing tighter and tighter together with that unending anger. The blood coated my face like heavy paint, stinging my eyes, tainting the air I breathed. I felt the werewolf's hands rise and slash at my shoulders to try and get me from the lethal grip, but I was locked. Then my hold did something all on its own.

I started chewing! Working my jaw muscles, the razor-sharp fangs of my teeth ground and stabbed at the soft flesh of his throat, all without my willing it. Deeper and deeper they plunged, until a final sickening juice covered my tongue as my fangs severed his jugular. Gasping, I recoiled, releasing the dog.

That's when the bloodlust abandoned me. I saw the werewolf fall. I saw him lying on the ground. As though my own wounds drained me, I grew at once very cold. My hands shook, the room spun around me, so it seemed only logical that I stumble backwards and fall to the ground, gasping. I stared at the werewolf, and in that instant I saw Mark, Gary, and Simon. I saw the guard. I saw the women at the bar.

I had killed.

All around me came the sound of violent fights. Alonzo was struck down by the largest male wolf, a long red streak down the broad Jellicle's arm. He groped behind him as he retreated a step. His hand closed over the barrel of one of the unloaded guns, and a sickening crack was heard as the end connected with the wolf's jaw. Skimbleshanks appeared, and together they took the werewolf down. He fell, as still and lifeless as the one murdered at my paws.

I had murdered.

The third male, not as large, was handling a joint effort of Tugger and Bombalurina. Bombalurina was by far the more ferocious, I daresay demonic. Her feline ability and supernatural strength combined with a female's passion for self-preservation turned her into a machine more deadly than any tom her age. She was latched on the werewolf's back, claws gouging his chest with Tugger's fangs clamped in a crushing hold around the wolf's wrist. They brought him down swiftly, but I didn't see it. Not only was I turned away and vomiting, but I was more concerned with why Admetus had disappeared. Groping to pull myself up using a crate as support, I saw why.

The Jellicle Leader was locked in battle with the enormous she-wolf. The flash of her fangs were blinding, and I collapsed, cringing behind the crate and whimpering as I wiped the blood from my face. Admetus's cry of pain was agonizing, and peeking around the crate I watched.

A knife protruded from the werewolf's side, only the handle showing, and Admetus's flank was a shredded red mess. With their fists locked, each tried to snap at the other's throat. The she-wolf was by far the bigger, and as she hurled Admetus at the floor their backs connected with one of the large crates, toppling it over. A vast array of guns and cartridges spilled from it onto the floor.

I felt the urgency in my legs to spring up and attack the wolf's exposed back, to drive her away from the brave tom. I didn't. The bloodlust had gone. I was rooted to the spot in fear, wide-eyed and speechless.

Admetus's rear feet rose and gouged the wolf's soft stomach in a manner so often used by cats. The wolf recoiled, snarling every profane phrase I knew, several more things in a werewolf speech I didn't understand. Admetus gathered himself together, crouching. I could see the determination in his eyes, the burn of _rach'arl_, and even if another Jellicle was there to help him he would have refused it. He was a loner. The wolf with one swipe of her black-furred arm knocked him aside as one would a fly, then dove for the crate of spilled guns. He flipped in mid-air and landed neatly on all fours against the side of a crate, using the surface to propel himself through the air again, directly at her.

But his claws, fangs, and ferocity were useless. Drawing a gun and cartridge from the fallen crate, her hands worked swiftly to slap it into place and take aim just as Admetus's claws closed around her shoulders. She shoved it up directly under his chin. My eyes saw his clear as day. They went wide in realization, and his hold on her was released, but there was not even time for him to cry out before the wolf pulled the trigger.

"ADMETUS!!!"

Mistake. Admetus's white form dropped like a limp doll as the she-wolf flung it away. Snarling beastily, she whirled and charged to where I crouched in hiding. Kicking the crate aside with unlimited strength, she dragged me by the scruff out into the open. I was thrown down roughly, the back of my neck throbbing, and when I looked up all I saw was the barrel of the gun.

"Say goodnight, kitty," the she-wolf's blood-chilling breath blasted in my face. I didn't have time to pray, and I probably wouldn't have, anyway. The other Jellicles hurled themselves into view just then, but it would have been too late.

Tugger was at the head of them.

Without hesitation or a spark of fear in his dashing features, he came flying in an arch-backed leap to slam into this female werewolf three times his size. His hands grabbed around her middle, and I rolled away in time enough to dodge the bullet that slammed into the floor where I had been laying. An ear-splitting howl split the air, and the wolf clawed me out of her way as she scrambled away from us, limping into the darkness of the warehouse. A matter of seconds later and the crash of a breaking window was heard and we knew she was gone.

I was on the ground, stretched out, face down with my hands covering my head, whimpering and unwilling to move until Bombalurina yanked me to my feet. I had to lean on her heavily to stay upright, dealing with the realization that I'd been looking Death right in the face.

But Tugger was exuberant. Dazed from the blow he'd received that knocked him away from the she-wolf, it took him a moment to stand steadily between Alonzo and Skimble. His fur was incredibly messed from the brawling, and even more ridiculous was the grin he wore in which he held the bloody stump of the she-wolf's tail. He held it aloft like a trophy, oblivious of the stench covering it.

"You owe me," he said. "Big time."

Things were quiet as I padded home through the alleys, a cat looking barely a year old. My shoulders ached from my wounds, but already I could feel the dull burn of them as they began to heal. Completely natural. Jellicles healed almost four times faster than humans. Odd I had never noticed before. I don't know what Alonzo or Skimble did with Admetus's body and those of the werewolves, but frankly I didn't care. I didn't think I could stand to watch Admetus's body to be moved. My mind was in a state of blank stillness, thinking nothing, barely noticing as my cat paws carried me up the fire escape and into the window I'd exited earlier that night. I took a shower, changed clothes, and retired to the study just as the sun was rising. I fell asleep in that chair behind the study desk and slept all day.

I woke from a disturbing dream at dusk, the first thought entering my head something as to the aspect of why did I respect Admetus so? I barely knew him...and yet maybe that was the reason. I hadn't the time to know _him_, his weaknesses, his past. I saw only his strength and regal command that inspired me so. It was as though seeing an actor in a film: you see them work for around two hours and walk away from the movie thinking they are the greatest person in the world. Was that all Admetus was to me?

Yes he was, but I didn't want it to be like that. I wanted to really care about something other than myself. I wanted to care about Admetus more than I would some film actor. But could I? Did I know that kind of compassion?

When I was nine I remember a kitten I found in the gutter while out with my father. Tiny and wet, my father said nothing when I bent to retrieve it. She was a pretty thing, with brendel fur and white paws. I took her home and cleaned her up. I offered her food and water, but in my ignorance I didn't realize that she was not yet weaned. I shoved her face into the food and water, begging her to miraculously start eating as the animals did in the movies, but it was probably that rough treatment that left her dead the next morning. I buried her myself in the rooftop garden and wept all day for her. Was that compassion? Pity? I had never felt as awful as when I saw her lifeless. I had wept for her, and wept for Admetus. But were they the same? Did they mean anything? The kitten I had forgotten within the next day. Would it be the same for Admetus? I had known them approximately the same amount of time...

No! No, Admetus was more than a cat. He was a person, better than anyone I knew. He gave his life fighting for his kind. I respected him for that, admired him, and wished he was here again. The sorrow and grieving that came suddenly, knowing that he died because I was too scared to help him; it was overwhelming. I was alone in the penthouse, and the only comfort I found was in a bottle of red wine.

The contents of the bottle vanished quickly, leaving me in a dazed state of euphoria where I merely sat and stared at the empty fireplace. My thoughts were that I wanted to change again, to know that feeling of absolute power that accompanied my shift to a cat. Like the alcohol in my system it was an addiction I craved. My clouded eyes crossed to the desk in front of me, landing on my hand-written words in the book where I had translated the songs with the help of Bustopher's code. _The Aweful Battle of the Pekes and the Pollicles_ lay on the open page. According to my father's notes the entire song was an extended metaphor for what he thought was a battle during the Great War. The Pekes, Pollicles, Poms, and Pugs were all dogs: a suspected reference to werewolves. He had been certain that the Rumpus Cat was a real Jellicle who stopped an impending battle among the wolves. _Why_, I wondered. If Jellicles so hated the werewolves, then why not let them destroy each other? It would save a great deal of effort on the cats' part. Whether the Rumpus Cat stopped them physically or indirectly I've yet to find out. The words of the song ran slowly through my head, and my mind wandered back to the Hunt of the werewolves...and to Admetus. As alcohol will do, the sorrow that swept over me was intensified, and in utter despair I didn't realize the words passing over my lips for some time.

"_The Pekes and the Pollicles everyone knows_..."

And they didn't stop. They grew louder, more intense, spilling from my throat like the wine that intoxicated me. The words were spoken so fast I do not know how I kept up with them.

"_They now and again join into the fray_..."

I leaped to my feet, stumbling dazedly in my drunkenness. The words kept pouring from my mouth. I ran lopsidedly across the study, snatching the beautiful red frock-style coat that hung on the wall and throwing it around myself. I threw the doors to the study open and ran down the hall, the song now coming from the top of my lungs.

"_There were surely a dozen, more likely a score_...!"

The enormous double doors to the deserted ballroom—where my father had hosted most of his parties—could never be opened without at least three men. But I flung it open with ease. The room opened up before me, streetlight illuminating the drawn curtains of the windows, the furniture in ghostly positions when draped in their white sheets. I punched the proper code into the wall panel and the two gargantuous chandeliers erupted in light, filling the room as bright as day.

"_There are dogs out of every nation_...!!"

I stared at the room, my insides aching with the memory of Admetus. Once I loved this room, so full of life, warmth, and friendliness. Now its dazzling grandeur shone as bright as Admetus's spirit, and his face was all I could think of. The room was empty. I grabbed at the sides of my head as it was suddenly throbbing with unheard music. It closed in around me, pounding, beating its tune with that of my heart. It grew louder, louder, until the throbbing sound of its silence was too much to bear.

The sparkling gold lace of the red coat about me showered nuggets of light in every direction as I dashed out into the midst of the floor, my footsteps and voice echoing off the high walls, dwarfed by the music in my head.

"_And to those that are frisky and frollical, that my meaning be perfectly plain_...!!!"

The alcohol, despite its strength, had no hindrance to my movements as I danced across the floor. My movements were not the same as the bone-breaking kicks and splits that had somehow been accomplished in Bustopher's apartment, but the energy was still there. I galloped about in circles, leaping so high and long my light head had the sensation of flight. I spun on my heels, arms spread rigid in the tango style. I waltzed gracefully, all the while my voice ringing throughout the penthouse.

"_Now when these bold heroes together assembled_...!!!"

And finally it ended with me standing spread-eagled, head thrown back, chest swelling as I roared out to drown the music thundering in my head: "ALL HAIL AND ALL BOW TO THE GREAT RUMPUS CAAAAAAAT!!!"

I dropped to my knees, alcohol vanquished as the sorrow came flooding back; the sorrow I had hoped to extinguish by doing these insane actions. Hot tears sliced my cheeks as I fell forward, burying my face in my arms. "Why do we fight..." I moaned piteously. "Why must I kill...? Admetus, tell me!" My supporting limbs gave up, and limply I rolled onto my side, curling on instinct into a fetus position. "Why does it have to be like this...?"

I don't know how long I lay there, staring at the lights above, but when I rose it was to the sound of footsteps.

"Sir?" came the inquiring voice of the maid. "Mr. Blakeney?"

I slowly groped to my feet, staring at the open doorway when she appeared through it. Her face was white. "Sir, are ye alright?" One hand held a shawl around her shoulders, the other pushed back her long black hair. "I 'eard a dreadful racket 'ere about."

I slowly pulled the coat from my shoulders, voice barely audible. "It was nothing. Go back to your home..."

But she didn't leave. She bustled into the room towards me, her fine shape not typical of most maids. She was barely thirty. I couldn't help but notice this as she drew closer. But I glared.

"Are ye sure, Sir? Ah've been worried about ye. Ye 'aven't been the same since ye father's passin'."

I grew angrier with every step she took. Couldn't she see I wanted to be alone? Didn't it register in my face, this pain I was feeling? Why couldn't she see it?! Her hand clasped my shoulder.

"Sir, please, back intah bed with ye—"

"Get out!" I screamed, throwing her arm away. She cried out as I shoved her backwards, perhaps harder than I meant to. She stumbled back and fell to the floor with a grunt. I flung the coat at her, roaring like a madman for her to get out of my home, out of my life, out of my own d****d existence. She ran out, shouting prayers to the Almighty. I didn't think I would ever see her again.

I woke the next morning with a terrible ache all over and feeling the need to apologize to the maid. I didn't, instead remaining in the solitude of my empty penthouse, recovering from the hangover. I wandered the place endlessly, staring at everything I owned. Whatever significance I had held for these items before...the importance I had put on things as silly as suits and phones and cars...I looked at the fancy possessions, and they suddenly seemed so worthless. I couldn't stand to look at them, and found escape in the garden on the roof of the building. Stretching out on the wooden bench set in the midst of the beautiful flowers and plants, I leaned my head back and shut my eyes, the words coming from my mouth all on their own:

"_Jellicle Cats are black and white_..._Jellicle Cats are rather small_..."

Night had fallen over New York City when I came down again. The place was just as empty, as quiet, as ransacked as when I'd left it. No maid had come. No manservant had opened the door. Perhaps I wanted that. I didn't want to be dependent on anyone...to be cared for like a child when I was almost a grown man. My mind was made up then, and I made the proper phonecalls and wrote the two letters.

Perhaps I would hire another maid later on, when I had used all the privacy I needed to figure out what I was going to do with this existence that had been dealt to me. I arranged in the letters so that the maid and manservant would receive their final paychecks, then locked myself into my own room for the night.

Despite having the penthouse to myself for some time now, I hadn't yet moved to sleeping in my father's room. I wasn't sure I even wanted to. It was too sudden. The feeling of him was still there. Besides, I liked my room. The walls painted a gentle white, they reflected the silvery-yellow light from outside in pale shafts. I stretched out on my open-sided bed pushed against the wall, lying prone for at least an hour before I limply flicked on the television in the corner. Heaviside must have hated me that night, for I hadn't flipped through three channels before a headline on the news caught my attention.

"_John James Blakeney was buried today after passing away from double pneumonia almost a week ago_..."

I stopped, watching with hints of anger building in me as the program showed a black casket decked in flowers sitting in a picture-perfect cemetery. I had attended the funeral three days ago. The news of my father's death had been withheld from the general public until after he'd been buried. It was in his will, plus the publicity wouldn't have been good for his image. But that's not what astonished me. They showed a film reel of his coffin being lowered, surrounded by friends and family, then a close up on my face. Blank, staring, cold. I might as well have killed him. One certainly could have thought so by the uncaring expression I wore. In fact, I almost looked as though I was _smiling_!

Cursing, I slapped the remote down and snatched the bottle of wine and empty glass that had been sitting on my desk at the window. I don't remember setting it there, but I must have. Filling the glass, I downed it in one gulp, hoping to drown my anger with it, and was going to turn and storm out of the room when I stopped. In the mirror against the wall I saw my reflection. The wine was too late. My thoughts were already hurling full-speed down the path of self-destruction.

Was Hunter Blakeney going to live out his existence a self-centered b*****d who had it easy because he was born lucky? He could lean back on silk pillows and eat from silver plates while the likes of Admetus gave their lives so that generations they'll never see may have the chance to live fully? Happily? Giving up love and luxury to defend others whose names they didn't know? Who they normally wouldn't give a thought about? Was this what I wanted to be?

"No!" I screamed, and the mirror shattered into millions of sparkling lights as I hurled my glass into it. I was disgusted with what I saw staring back at me: an aristocrat who cared nothing for the world. But was that really me? This grief I was feeling for Admetus, for Mark, for that guard...if this grief was for the sorrow that others had died—others I had barely known—and not for myself, then why did my face display openly my selfishness? My arrogance? Why did I still see that contempt for the world in my eyes?

"Because that's how you appear." It must have been the wine, but sure enough I was speaking out loud. "The world sees you as you are, no matter how much you change inside..." I looked back at the television screen. It showed me getting into the black limousine, surrounded by friends and manservants.

"_Hunter Blakeney is the sole heir to John Blakeney's fortune, which would make him currently one of the richest young men in New York and probably one of the most eligible bachelors_..."

It then showed a still shot of me. I stared at it, hating it as much as I hated the mirror. The feelings displayed there on my face were no different. "So that's how it's going to be," I growled, flicking the picture off angrily. "I see myself as a fool and egotistical idiot." I rose to my feet, clenching my fists tightly as I crossed to the window. I leaned against the frame, looking out over the city, my mouth pressed hard against the ball of my fist. "Then I can only wonder what they think of me." I stared, watching the blinking lights of Times Square. Something about them bothered me. _Virgin_...the couple kissing on the enormous TV screen built into the side of the building...the Olympic swimmer portrayed on the flatscreen building below the Coca-Cola sign...they irritated me.

"Fine!" I growled, yelling at no one. "Fine! You see me as a fool! I'll be your fool! It doesn't matter anymore! Hunter Blakeney's gone senile! _Munkustrap's working you now, New York_!!"

It was lucky I had the window shut, or else someone would have heard me. I turned on my heel angrily and stormed through the penthouse, slamming fists against the walls, kicking anything that got in my way. I was at the front door before I knew it, and unable to go any further I slammed both fists against it and turned, falling onto the low couch in the entranceway. When I turned my head I was staring directly at the portrait of my mother. She still had that gentle smile on her painted face, those kind eyes...now as lifeless as Admetus.

"Well," I said, choking on anger, "I hope you're proud of me."


	4. Munkustrap: WereCats 4

****

Munkustrap – Part Four

Our little brawl at the warehouse hadn't gone entirely unnoticed. It was featured in the newspaper the next day. I woke that morning to a knock on the door, still lying on the couch in the entranceway. The moment my eyes opened I was staring at the face of my mother's painting, and jumped back with a little cry of surprise. _Stupid_...I growled. The knock sounded on the door again.

My head ached from the after-effects of the wine, my clothes were wrinkled, my hair stuck in odd directions, but I answered it anyway. A boy no older than twelve stood there, eyes wide at my appearance.

"Yes?" I asked groggily, my throat dry.

"A Mistah down the street asked me t' give this to ya," the boy said, holding up a rolled newspaper. I frowned, my forehead throbbing. Bustopher? But I was in no mood to be bothered. I took the paper and thanked the boy by handing him the first dollar bill I grabbed from my pocket. It was a twenty. Eyes bulging even more, he dashed off down the hallway of the apartment building. I went back inside and made doubly sure I slammed the door.

On the second page, filling up the middle column, I was certain Bustopher had the paper delivered, for the article had been circled in a bright yellow highlight. The title was irrelevant. It was the article that caught my interest.

..._one guard was found dead, David Borako, who was suspected to have tried to stop the smugglers of illegal guns when they arrived at the warehouse to pick up the cargo. He will be given a hero's funeral at_...

I tossed the paper down. Nothing. No news of werewolves, werecats, or the slightest noise of gunshots fired. The public was clueless, and would remain so. For a moment I wondered about how difficult it must have been for shapeshifters through the centuries to keep themselves hidden. Throughout superstitious Europe I doubt it would have been that hard...plagues, little technology, how spaced apart people were...quite the opposite of today. Today they had autopsies, records of every person born, such forensic technology it would be easy to prove such creatures existed. The only thing keeping us safe and hidden, probably, was the lack of people willing to believe werecats and vampires existed. It made me wonder...so I delved into the history books.

My father's journal was packed full of information about werecats, from the songs, to tiny tidbits of artifacts, what museums they could be found in, and famous people in history who were werecats, wolves, or vampires. Some I knew, some I didn't, and several outright surprised me. For the sake of their reputation I won't say who they are, but let it be known that there were werecats in existence since 25,000 BC, when the drawings on prehistoric caves depicted humans with the heads and tails of cats.

The library that covered the walls of the study contained an entire section devoted to occult, and retiring to the room in only my robe with a thermos of iced soda, I searched through each and every book. Tons on werewolves and vampires, but very little about werecats. Why so? The explanation Bustopher had given me was that vampires and werewolves were the two groups hurt the least in the Great War, thus there were more of them to be discovered and written about. Jellicles had been devastated. But there was one book, pages yellowed and leather cover soft with oil, titled _Anthology of Felix Sapiens_* (I suppose a scientific name for werecat) that had been first published in 1567 in Paris. Translated, perhaps, but full of stories. And the version I held had been republished in 1980, a few stories and articles added. There was one tale in particular that caught my attention. In 1809, it told of a Navajo Indian who shirked his nightly work to spend his time with two beautiful girls, who in fact were witches and would turn into cats. After reading the tale through twice, I sat back and wondered.

If the story were true, and these two Native American girls were werecats, how could I, who had no Native American blood whatsoever, share the same gift? Most of my family came from Britain, Ireland, Scotland, perhaps France or Germany. Was the story true? Where did Jellicles originate? Egypt? How could I find my kind's origins if I didn't fully believe them myself? What could I believe, and what was the fantastical imagination of a peasant farmer? All these questions...some of them still not answered.

My search took me almost the entire day. Books that failed to turn up anything stacked on the corners of my desk one after another, creating a tower higher and higher that threatened to topple onto me any moment. At about eleven o'clock it finally did.

The crash of the books against the floor jogged me from my mechanical energy that kept me going at my task, eyes aching, hands stiff, drink long since gone. My throat was parched and my stomach rumbled. With no maid or manservant of any kind I had told myself I could fix my own meals, but then actually doing it was a different task. So I pulled myself from the study and retrieved a glass of milk from the kitchen. Sipping its cool sweetness, I stepped out onto the balcony from the study for some fresh air.

Before you start making assumptions, milk had not changed in texture, taste, or importance to me in any way. It was milk. I think the relation between real domestic cats and milk is greatly exaggerated. I've done some reading, and the truth is that a lot of milk for any cat could make them sick. Sort of the same with dogs and chocolate, though not half as severe. But then again, cat digestive tracks vary as much as humans. I drank the milk as I would any other day, leaning against the stone railing of the balcony.

The city spread out under me as it did every night. Nothing was different. The same lights blinked, the same horns blared, the same people walked the streets. It took a moment of silent watching for me to hear the yelling below my feet.

The couple beneath my penthouse, the Rainesfords, fought constantly. Sometimes I could sit on the balcony and hear them below, arguing. He would hit her, yell at her, and when she would leave to go to her friends' for recovery he would invite over his many mistresses. I doubt my father was ever relaxed enough to hear them, but I did. I ignored it. It wasn't any of my business...until now.

"Get up!" he was screaming. "Get off the d**n floor!"

"I can't!" she screamed back. One could tell by her voice that she was crying.

"Get up, or I'll give you somethin' to scream about!" A loud smack followed.

That did it.

_Rach'arl..._

It flamed up again, not as hot as before in the warehouse, perhaps because of my human shape, but the moment I sped along the balcony my feet turned to paws beneath me and I transformed even as I leaped onto the rail, leaning over with only one hand keeping me balanced on the cold stone. A living gargoyle. Eyes slitted, my werecat senses could hear the two even through the thick glass door. The _rach'arl_ already acted as a stimulant for my nervous system, but when I heard another gut-wrenching smack and the woman's reaction scream my breathing ran ragged.

A swish of my tail cutting the air was the only sound as I hurled myself over the balcony, twisting as I fell, and landed on all fours on the rail of the one below. My slitted eyes whipped to the double glass doors leading into the apartment, the light spilling from it silhouetting the two figures on the other side. I saw the man, bent over his wife with a handful of her hair yanking her head back. My fangs bared themselves. This wasn't right! It was probably the only thought in my head as I charged the glass: it wasn't right. Women shouldn't be beat by their husbands.

A scream in imitation of Admetus's broke from my throat a second before my claws slammed into the glass, shattering the entire pane. Several shards embedded themselves in my paws, the sting of them only pushing my anger further. Mrs. Rainesford was tossed away, not looking at me, but her husband...

With that ear-piercing screech, my claws stretched out long and lethal, powerful feline legs launching me into the air. The drunk man whirled around stupidly, and could only let out a strangled gurgle as I passed the high point of my leap, landed directly on his chest, and sank my long, cat-like fangs deep into his throat. There was a crash as we fell, knocking over the dining room table. The man landed with a sickening thump on his back, and I felt the warm liquid fill my mouth as I bit down with all my might.

__

Blood...

I wanted it.

There was little struggling.

I lifted my head, breathing in raspy pants, licking the blood that ran from my black lips and whiskers. The dizzy intoxicating scent of blood flooded my mind. I closed my eyes, relishing the taste of it as though a vampire myself. I'm certain I would have given over to the predator in me and proceeded to tear at the man's dead flesh if Mrs. Rainesford hadn't gasped behind me.

I whirled to face her, mane bristled but not menacing. She was backing away slowly, scooting on the polished floor, eyes wide and mouth open in fear. Her gaze was fixed on me and her dead husband. Totally unaware of my intent, I remained on all fours and padded slowly towards her. She let out a small sob of fear as she found herself backed against a wall, my face looming not a foot from hers. She opened her mouth to scream.

"Shhhh..." I said lightly, staring at her eyes. The sound died in her throat before it could rise. Then I did a strange thing...I started _purring_.

It's hard to describe the effect the purring had on her. The scent of fear seeping through her pores was suddenly gone, the horror in her eyes replaced by a strange admiration. I daresay longing. When she reached out to stroke the fur on my head I didn't question it. I kept purring. A small sigh of "thankyou" passed her red lips, and with a tender lick of her hand I turned to leave. I don't think she wanted me to go.

It was later when I mentioned to Bustopher the purring that I finally learned what I had in fact been doing. When a werecat purrs, he said, or talks sweetly in human form, it acts as a sort of weak mind control over the human they are addressing. As long as it is kept up, the human will do anything the werecat says—to a certain point—and shower the Jellicle with affection. But it doesn't last forever, and won't work on other Jellicles, werewolves, and vampires. _Wonderful_, was my first thought. _I'll have to try it sometime._

I was still a werecat as I climbed back into my own penthouse, a small trail of blood trickling from my hands and mouth. I tried shifting back to my human shape, but the scrape of flesh as it shrank and changed against the glass embedded in my palms was too agonizing. Claws I found were a much easier tool than tweezers. Bending over the sink, I ran water and picked out the few small shards with my bare claws, finishing it off by wrapping my wrists and hands in clean white bandages when I finally did shift back to Hunter. The rest of the night was spent cleaning the stains of red from the balcony and carpet. After that was done, I made the proper phonecalls to report "some disturbing noises downstairs."

The police didn't know what to say. I think they blamed it on the Rainesfords' golden retriever, saying it got protective when Mr. Rainesford started to beat his wife. They asked what I heard, and I told them. The death was ruled as uncertain, the closest being animal attack or self defense, and shortly after Mrs. Rainesford moved to Washington state. I'll never forget the look on her face when I told her goodbye just as she was leaving for the airport. The bandages on my hands were gone, no scars remained, but the expression that passed over her face was that of recognition. As if she _knew_ I was the strange creature she'd told no one about. I never saw her again.

Bustopher and I sat on the stone edge of the clocktower overlooking Manhattan, the nightscape of city spreading out before us. As though purposely, the flashing lights drew both our eyes up to the World Trade Center. We sat among the stone gargoyles, both in our werecat forms but resting assured that we wouldn't be found. The orange floodlights shone off his glossy coat, his white tail tip twitching lazily as we gazed out.

The city is no place for a cat. Or any animal for that matter. The smells, for one. Sewer stench, dog droppings, car exhaust, greasy food, rotting trash...it's awful. I can hardly walk down a single street decked in my stripes without wrinkling my nose at one stinking thing or another. The humans are lucky in that aspect, I suppose. They can't smell as well as a cat. They complain about felines leaving droppings on sidewalks or parks that stink, when they don't bother to consider what they flush down the toilet every day.

The noise is even worse. Incessant clamor day and night...night and day...never-ending. Squealing brakes, cursing humans, honking taxis, working construction machines. It's maddening. How I've been able to stand it so long it a miracle in itself. If it weren't for the safety faults, I'd much rather be deaf.

Even when in human form the sounds, smells, and sights around me I could detect as well as any cat. It's taken me awhile to get used to it, and in a city as big as Manhattan I can tell you: it is not an easy task to stand. Even as Bustopher and I stood on the top of the enormous building, the happenings going on down in the streets were as plain as day: the sights, sounds, and smells as though we were standing right there. I was caught up in studying these things..the bustle of a woman's skirt, the steam rising from the hotdogs of a streetside vendor, the pattern sewn into the back of a young man's leather jacket. All these things fascinated me. I hardly noticed even when I spoke...

"Do you have any children?"

He must have been as wrapped in thought as I, for his response was merely turning to face me with a lifted brow. "Pardon?"

"You said part of our duty as Jellicles was to breed. Do you have any children?"

He chuckled lightly. "Yes. Several. All Jellicles, all from the same queen, and all illegitimate."

"B.J.?!" I gasped in astonishment.

"Don't be shocked, Hunter. Jennyanydots and I have been Jellicle mates since before you were born. Our children reside with her, ranging fifteen to seven. I have others, but they have all grown and started their own families elsewhere."

"But you don't live together...?"

"Think for a moment, Hunter, how strange it would be for someone of my stature to wed a poor woman who runs a homeless shelter. Rest assured, I meet her every night. We love each other, and I fully support them all...emotionally and financially."

I didn't understand, and said so.

"You just wait, Master Blakeney," he smiled gently. I didn't like the tone of his voice when he called me that. "To be a successful Jellicle tom, you must at least have a mate and prosper. You'll find one someday."

To tell the truth the thought had never occurred to me. Hunter Blakeney? Married? It seemed as though it had been ages since I'd thought of Sara, or most any female, for that matter. There was Bombalurina, whom I had met, but her fiery disposition had never struck me as the type to actually get "married." But that was a human thing, wasn't it? Like Bustopher had done: he had a mate, the Jennyanydots who ran the homeless shelter. I had seen no children in my time there, but that didn't mean they didn't exist. Bustopher's black eyes turned back to the city, but I looked at him for a long while.

Bustopher Jones, faithful friend to my father, mentor to me. I would have been lost without him. Father dead, not knowing any other werecats existed, where would my mind have gone? I was grateful to Bustopher for everything, for being my friend when he knew what a brat I was, for pushing on when I wanted to turn my back on everything. I wondered if there was ever anything I could do to show my gratitude. Nothing came to mind.

"It's getting late," he finally said. "I should go see Jenny before the night's over."

I watched him shrink down into a domestic black and white cat and pad away, the flaps of his underbelly swaying side to side. I should have thought more of it at the time. I still curse myself today for not saying anything about the sight of the graying hairs around his muzzle.

Time passed quickly for me. Not because I was happy...far from it. But I was busy. Constantly hustling from party to meeting to Jellicles. This was probably a good thing, for being so busy kept me from thinking. My first major act as master of the Blakeney penthouse was to redecorate the entire place. Excepting the desk and cushioned chair that sat in the study where my father used to sit, everything was replaced. Even my father's bed. I stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame and staring at it: the gold banisters leading up to a rust-brown canopy, the frilly blankets of golden fall apples glistening in the sunlight streaming in the high windows, the white sheets underneath rustling from the breeze of the air conditioner. Behind me the hustle of the workers moving furniture and talking with the decorators echoed throughout the apartment house, but my eyes remained fixed on the bed. Changed, the entire room, the entire house save the study, and still I couldn't find it in myself to sleep in there. I spent that night in my own room again.

You may think that my first three years as a Jellicle were filled to the brim with nothing but fun, excitement, and danger...and you would be wrong. The emphasis Bustopher and the others put on killing werewolves and vampires was greatly exaggerated. They spoke as if you spent every minute of your life searching the dark alleys for coffins, gazing into other peoples' eyes for the spark of lycanthropic flame, waiting tensely to throw off your jacket and attack in full werecat fury. It was nothing like that. Life fairly went on as usual, only a greater knowledge went with it. Only rarely did a fight between Jellicles and our enemies erupt, especially with soft-going Gus as the new leader. He preferred to concentrate on increasing our numbers. Not like Admetus, who would have organized a Hunt at the drop of a hat. But even Admetus had a son. I couldn't help but feel sorry for Plato: both his parents dead and he having not even gone through his Age of Change yet. I, on the other hand, had the luxury of that last night with my father. At least the letter, if nothing else. Another reason Jellicle life was far from exciting was because I was still a kitten by their standards, even at twenty.

I want to try and describe some of the Jellicles that made up our Manhattan Tribe. Not just for your benefit, but for theirs. My father had taken the liberty to record a number of historic Jellicles down into his journal, but none of them he had known personally. I didn't want that. I want the Jellicles I knew then and still do today to be remembered as I remember them.

Admetus, Bombalurina, Tugger, Alonzo, and Skimble have been somewhat accounted for already. There were others. Plenty.

Asparagus, or Gus as most called him, had been appointed the position of Jellicle Leader after Admetus's death. Twice Admetus's age, even older, he was the most likely candidate. At a first glance, though, one wouldn't guess it. Fur already thin and graying with age, the only traces of the deep brown and black it had once been could be seen along his back and flanks. He had a kindly old face, withered and worn by time, that betrayed the wisdom that came with age. He was an actor on Broadway, almost sixty years old, but still playing major roles in plays of Shakespeare, musicals, as well as maintaining a steady reputation as one of the fairest stage show critics. I'm not going to give his human name, or those names of many other Jellicles, for several of them are still around and would rather not be revealed. Instead, their cat identities will suffice.

Coricopat and Tantomile were identical twins who lived in the run-down slums of Manhattan, keeping largely to themselves. I rarely saw them, and when I did they were always together. Bustopher always said that it was good they kept away from the rest of the tribe, for they were both insane. Allow me to clarify this: Coricopat and Tantomile were what you would call Gifted. Among Jellicles there are a few extraordinary things that we may all do that further separates us from humans, but even more scarce are Jellicles who can see the future, communicate by thoughts, and have all-around magic. The Twins (as Coricopat and Tantomile are often referred to) were two such Jellicles. They could speak to each other without words, knew each other's thoughts and feelings, and even see the future...though not as much as possible. Incredible, yes, but with these Gifts came a price: insanity. Jellicles such as I are fortunate in that matter, for the insanity is not an eternal madness. Rather, it is a lurking creature in the minds of these poor Gifted souls, waiting at any emotional moment to take over. I have seen what a Jellicle is reduced to when these periods of insanity come, and it is not pleasant.

Cassandra was about my age as well, thin and sleek with her dancer's grace and the glint in her eye of aloofness. I was told she was Gifted as well, but I've yet to see any proof of it. But she was exotic in her own way. The Twins, whose matching coat patterns were somber shades of gray tainted in flecks of black, white, red, and yellow, had not the furry extensions most other Jellicles (myself included) on their wrists, shins, manes, and tails. Nor did Cassandra, whose werecat coloring was simple brown with cream-colored undersides. Even in human form her slanted eyes spoke of Oriental origin, so it is often that the rest of us Jellicles refer to her as "a Siamese."

And then there were what Asparagus called the "Newbies." Trust an actor to come up with a term like that. Newbies were what he called the Jellicles who had not yet gone through their first change. It is hard to describe how I knew a Newbie Jellicle when I saw one, but I could. Perhaps it was their scent, or the glint in their eyes that distinguished them from other humans. From what I knew there were quite a few of them, most younger than I.

Bustopher's children, of course. The three youngest, two sons and a daughter, were twelve, eight, and seven, and I doubted that they would know about the rest of us Jellicles for some time yet. But then there was the oldest, fifteen, who had just gone through his Age of Change. Something I could not understand, even though Bustopher told me seventeen was natural, was why so many Jellicles had their first change at early ages—even Tugger, who had changed at fifteen—when mine was seemingly at a later age. Bustopher also said that each Jellicle was unique, special in their own way. He was very proud of Mistoffelees, and had every right to be. The young man was _extremely_ special.

Colored nearly identical to his father as a cat, Mistoffelees lacked only the aristocratic air about him that would have separated him from his mother Jennyanydots. I really wouldn't have much contact with him until his mother taught him more about his nature, but I had my eye on him. You see, Mistoffelees was Gifted with magic, but had yet to show any signs of the insanity. Even he probably didn't realize it, but among the older Jellicles I could hear it whispered. _Magic_, they said. _As he grows and learns it will develop. There's no telling how powerful he may be!_ Coricopat and Tantomile would most likely tutor him, but these things wouldn't come until later.

And lastly there was Plato: a cat very much after my own heart. Still sixteen yet, he had not changed. He was already tall for his age, and if I hadn't seen Admetus killed with my own eyes I would have sworn he had regained his youth. Plato as a human had dark brown skin just as his father did, the same flashing eyes, the same well-built frame. Until his Age of Change I knew I should keep my distance from him, but I couldn't help stealing down in civilian clothes once and awhile to lean at the streetcorner and watch him make his way from school to where he lived with his aunt and uncle. He always walked alone, face fixed on the ground, hands shoved into his pockets. But there was always that air of ferocity that surrounded him...that gentle independence that made itself known when he encountered the neighborhood bullies harassing a youth, or helped an old lady with her bag. I would _certainly_ keep my eye on him.

These were the Jellicles that made up our Manhattan Tribe. Quite numerous, considering the low population our kind had been reduced to. I would get to know them all very well in time, and they would all play a role in my later life.

Three years passed before I knew it, and the night came for my third Jellicle Ball: the annual dance when I would no longer be a kitten.

__

The Jellicle Ball.

The best writer of them all couldn't begin to describe the rushing feelings sent hurtling through one's blood at the mere sight or sound of the great annual dance; the fluid movements, the static energy, the heat of the emotions. They couldn't begin to describe what grace and strength the Jellicles used in their natural movements as they dance in the wildness of the full moon's light. Not even close...

But, then again, I doubt the best of those writers are Jellicles. I'm Munkustrap, and I _am_ a Jellicle.

I could have gone slower and described in all the extravagant detail the wonders of my first Jellicle Ball. I'd arrived with Bustopher, and was swept away. But that's the thing...it's hard to describe it in words. I doubt I could attempt it more than once. So here I go...

The third Jellicle Ball is a thing a Jellicle kitten will never forget. It's the turning point of their new life: that Rite of Passage into adulthood. All Jellicle Balls are identical, orderly, chaotic, routine, but I have yet to lose my sense of wonder in them. The third Ball I attended was as amazing as the first, if not moreso even.

Just outside New York City, past the Bronx somewhere, is an enormous junkyard abandoned by most humans—save the odd few homeless that have to be driven away in advance. Filthy, dark, secluded: a decent place for twenty-odd werecats to gather for a night of revelry. The moon was round as a fish's eye. It shone down bright and clear as the night for the Jellicle Ball began. Bustopher and I slipped in with stealthy silence in our cat forms. Our noses could detect the taint in the air of anticipation, that magical lightheadedness that drew us by instinct to the exact spot. We slipped through and over junk like shadows ourselves...and we weren't the only ones. In twos and threes other shadows, stealthier, moved silently through the junk like a living river, flowing between the dark heaps so that only a flash in the moonlight shafts could be seen.

Our destination was a clearing deep in the junkyard, lower than the surrounding area by being set in a deep hollow among the garbage. Ghostly shapes and shadows appeared out of the night as the Jellicles reached the clearing. From where Bustopher and I crouched beneath a tarp, I could see Gus stalk out slowly. He crouched, moving stealthily on all fours. Silently he padded up the hill and into the center, looking around with his gold flashing eyes. His ears and whiskers pressed forward as he slowly rose to his hind legs as a werecat and looked around, sniffing the air. After a tense moment, his body relaxed and he turned to the darkness around him, as if speaking to no one he called, "All is well! Let the Ball begin!"

There was a whooping screech and cry, then the yard sprang to life as the tribe of Jellicle Cats came rushing from the dark depths of the forest, anxious to start the Jellicle Ball. I was among them, growing larger as I dashed at Bustopher's flank. The screeching soon died as the entire tribe sat in respectful silence around Gus, who stood tall and proud in the center. The Jellicle leader smiled, then began to sing in his deep voice.

"_Jellicle Cats come out tonight. Jellicle Cats come one, come all._

The Jellicle Moon is shining bright. Jellicles come to the Jellicle Ball."

With his stage of the song completed, according to Jellicle tradition, the other Jellicles stood one at a time, each singing their catch of the song. Some squirmed, tails lashed, not one of us could remain still with the mounting excitement. I knew the song well, having read it several times from my father's journal.

"_Jellicle Cats are black and white. Jellicle Cats are rather small._

Jellicle Cats are merry and bright, and pleasant to hear when we caterwaul.

Jellicle Cats have cheerful faces. Jellicle Cats have bright black eyes.

We like to practice our airs and graces, and wait for the Jellicle Moon to rise.

Jellicle Cats develop slowly. Jellicle Cats are not too big.

Jellicle Cats are roly poly. We know how to dance a gavotte and a jig.

Until the Jellicle Moon appears we make our toilette and take our repose.

Jellicles wash behind their ears. Jellicles dry between their toes.

Jellicle Cats are white and black. Jellicle Cats are of moderate size.

Jellicles jump like a jumping jack. Jellicle Cats have moonlit eyes.

We're quiet enough in the morning hours. We're quiet enough in the afternoon.

Reserving our terpsichorean powers to dance by the light of the Jellicle Moon.

Jellicle Cats are black and white. Jellicle Cats as we said are small.

If it happens to be a stormy night we will practice a caper or two in the Hall.

If it happens the sun is shining bright you would say we had nothing to do at all.

We are resting and saving ourselves to be right for the Jellicle Moon and the Jellicle Ball!"

To complete the last verse, the entire tribe leaped to their paws and sang together, a large, harmonious choir of beautiful voices. I strained upward towards the moon overhead, tip-toed, tail lashing, crowing at the top of my lungs. The tension was snapped, and the cats burst forward in a flood of energy for the annual dance.

"_Jellicle Cats come out tonight! Jellicle Cats come one, come all!_

The Jellicle Moon is shining bright! Jellicles come to the Jellicle Ball!"

Chaotic and mystifyingly organized is the best oxymoron I can think of to describe it. The energy that bound all of us Jellicles together, limb for limb, mind to mind, hearts beating in a single body, welled up inside me as a growing stream of pressure, ready to burst the moment my furry legs moved. It was a madness that took over my mind, wiping out all thought but to dance, to sing, stifling my thoughts with an unheard music that pounded my temples. That music we all heard. It was the beat of our hearts, the rustle of our fur through the wind, the tinkle of our paws over the junk. That was our music. And we danced.

I was insane. My paws were naught but a blur as I cavorted, dwarfing the steps I took that day in Bustopher's apartment, that night in the ball room of my own penthouse. I swept alongside Tugger, who, as we had in the alley on the night of that Hunt, was as swept up as I in the whirl of motion. We were brothers tonight. We were all united in the maniacal wonderful lunacy of it all.

I found myself swept away, spinning, only to stop face to face with Bombalurina. But our movements never slowed. Taking her hand, we moved in synch. Our hips swayed, our tails looped, our footpaws kicked and carried us in perfect balance over the junk. In a sudden whirling motion she changed the flow of direction and was up against me, her red fur shining like fire under the moonlight. But the spell wasn't broken by her closeness. We continued to dance, my paws first on her shoulders, moving down to her waist, feeling the glide of her dancer's muscles under the fur there. The fire that ignited in my gut was not even enough to stop the dancing, but enough to make me draw her close and nuzzle her in a feline manner without knowing what I was doing. It was a mutual action.

I couldn't help it. It was werecat nature. Our duty: to increase our numbers. I know that now. But at that moment the urge to mate with her was overwhelming. I was a werecat. I was a male. I don't blame myself for feeling that way, but I wish I didn't. She didn't push me away. In fact, she encouraged it. Her eyes stared into mine deeply before I licked her soft neck as any cat would. Her claws delicately raked up through my arm fur, digging into my shoulders in tiny pinpricks of pain that I relished. We entwined, ready to make love at any moment. But I wasn't alone. Had I not been under the spell of the moon, I would have noticed that around me, other pairs of cats were doing like actions, nuzzling, rubbing shoulders. Some pairs had been mates for years, some were kittens like me seduced by the rush of sensation. I had begun to take Bombalurina to the ground when we were stopped.

It really is amazing how much like cats we Jellicles really are. Competition among males, not really taking a mate but mating with a number of females freely, the urge for solitude...all these things effect us at one time or another. Even rich brats. I didn't love Bombalurina; I barely knew her even after three years (by nature Jellicles aren't the most social animals, even moreso with one of my status), yet here I was on the verge of siring her kittens. Tugger's claws found my side and ripped me from her grasp, and took my place quickly. Bombalurina didn't seem to notice the change. Pure cat. But this enraged me. Competition, that's what it was. Among males of any species, even moreso among Jellicles, for the adrenaline of the moon heightened all our emotions, our passion, our hate, our rapture. I counterattacked my rival, snarling, and in a haze of fury we fell to the ground, biting, clawing, and slashing. Fighting over a female. I remember catching a glimpse of Bombalurina in the midst of our scuffle. She was grinning.

I don't remember what broke Tugger and me apart, but Bombalurina slipped away with him by the time the Moon Madness had loosened its hold on the Jellicle Tribe. Not entirely, otherwise we all would have dropped dead from exhaustion, but enough to where we could at least speak, think, and rationalize our actions. It was a good thing, too. I had to sing.

I don't know what made me choose to sing for my solo that year, the moment that would signal the beginning of my adulthood, but as natural as dancing seemed to me, it didn't sound very appealing. The cats settled down in their groups or pairs among the crevices and ledges of the junkyard, and I stood center, raising my muzzle to the sky. Closing my eyes, I sang:

"_Memory, turn your face to the moonlight,_

Let your memory lead you: open up, enter in.

If you find there, the meaning of what happiness is,

Then a new life will begin."

_Memory_, the song I found and translated in my father's journal, captivated my mind since I first experimented with by singing it out loud. My father had left a few notes indicated the meters and rhythms of the songs he wrote down, but for _Memory_ none were needed. The song was smooth as water, flowing with equal ease, and each note of my deep tenor voice rang perfectly pitched on the night air. I wasn't even listening to myself. I was singing.

"_Daylight, I must wait for the sunrise._

I must think of the new life, and I mustn't give in.

When the dawn comes, tonight will be a memory, too.

And a new day will begin."

I let loose with the same energy I danced with when the night was young, lungs ready to burst, voice pulsing with life:

"_Touch me! It's so easy to leave me_

All alone with the memory of my days in the sun.

If you touch me, you'll understand what happiness is.

Look, a new day has begun!"

I held the last sound, throat rolling, until my lungs were empty of air and the sound died with a gasp.

There is something you must understand about Jellicles. It is embarrassing for me to admit, really, but it is the truth. One such as Tugger could admit it with ease, but I'm not Tugger. _Ignorance is bliss, but knowledge is power_...choose whichever you think fits best. You must understand that Jellicle duty is to breed. Not only our assigned duty, but our nature. There it is again: that similarity to real felines. Not a day passed when I didn't feel it. That urge for females as had come so often in my dreams was now reality. Even I was astonished at their intensity and frequency. It made me wonder why Jellicle population never increased rapidly, as much as I felt these urges. For a long while I would pace my penthouse restlessly, waiting for them to pass, until finally I sought Bustopher and with all reluctance told him.

"Get used to them," was all he could tell me. "They'll be with you the rest of your life."

I don't think I ever could get used to them. Of course there were alternatives to spend the energy, but I would never lower myself to their requirements. I gritted my teeth and bore them alone, continuing my restless pacing.

Even after my song was done Bombalurina was on my mind, and so was one of the urges. As much as I danced continuously afterwards it would not go away. The moon was low in the western sky when I finally resolved to seek her out, perhaps just to speak to her to ease the burning. As I padded away from the gathered tribe I wondered: do Jellicle queens feel these same urges? In my later years I found that: yes, they do have urges, even moreso. Again they are like cats. I am not certain what the time pattern is, but every once in a while (some long, some short), a Jellicle queen will go into Heat. Yes, werecats are like that. As is our duty and nature, female Jellicles are extremely fertile, and during their Heats they involuntarily put off a scent—as any normal female cat would—and the rest is obvious. Those scents accompanying the urges can be the most maddening thing of all, to the point where even Bustopher could be possibly accused of assault. No one ever said life as a Jellicle is an easy one.

There seem to be so many things that can drive a Jellicle to madness. Urges, Gifts, the moon...but I suppose that's all we are: creatures of madness. No human could possibly know passions such as my kind feels. Vampires are not plagued by the urges because "they're not like that." Werewolves put little emphasis on breeding, for their numbers are in no such danger. Sometimes I find myself wondering: out of vampires, werewolves, and Jellicles, which species is the worst off? I have yet to draw any conclusions. Vampires have their immortality (which most Jellicles consider a curse) and their only was of surviving being to kill innocents. Werewolves have their lack of society and morals as well as their lack of any magic or Gifts whatsoever. And Jellicles...we have our madnesses. Add these to the problems that everyday humans face and you will have our disadvantages. In that aspect, we are all equal.

I did eventually seek out Bombalurina among the scattered filth of the junkyard, but curled up alongside her and both sleeping was Tugger. As quickly and quietly as I'd arrived, I left again, cursing myself for thinking to even go after her. I could control these urges as sure as I could control my shifting forms. I belonged to the night, a creature of the moon's making and design. In both human and Jellicle standards I was at last an adult. I was a man now. And to prove it to myself, I slept in my father's old room that night, and have every night after.

* = As far as I know, this book does not exist. If it does, it is purely coincidental.


	5. Munkustrap: WereCats 5

****

Munkustrap – Part Five

It didn't happen instantaneously or even in a short time period, but I began to notice changes happening to me.

Dancing and singing became a second nature. I had never shown a spark of interest in them before, except the odd trip to a Broadway show or to the opera, but now not a day went by when I didn't have the urge to dance, or found myself unconsciously singing out loud. Of course there had been the Jellicle Ball, where such a sound poured from my throat Michael Ball would have been silenced. There was the dance in Bustopher's penthouse, at the Ball, but had I considered them to be things I would normally do? Not really. As my entire view of the world changed, so did my habits. Song and dance became a part of me.

Bustopher said it was as natural as the urges. He'd already explained it to me, but I had failed to realized that when he spoke of Jellicles having song and dance in their blood that he was understating the desire of performance. Sometimes in the middle of the night—on full moons especially—I would wake up and have an overwhelming lust for dance. An addiction, far worse than any alcohol, narcotic, or nicotine, if I did not give in to these urges I would toss and turn all night without a hope for sleep. Needless to say I learned to enjoy dancing and singing very quickly.

My appetite increased dramatically. I suppose it was the higher metabolism that provided the energy for me to bear the strength and weight of changing into a werecat. I could snack all day on sandwiches or sodas, or sit down at a dinner party and eat an entire platter of seafood, two sides, and appetizer, and dessert. But no one noticed. Before my father died barely anyone knew who Hunter Blakeney really was, let alone his eating habits. They just assumed for the time being I would remain thin no matter how much I ate, but by sixty would weigh five-hundred pounds. And it wasn't as though I had the manners of a werewolf...I was still a "proper gentlemen." I was just eternally hungry.

"Famished tonight, Mr. Blakeney?" I was asked after finishing a meal of just that description one night at a fancy restaurant. I was alone, listening to the gentle music playing in the background, but the waiter had noticed the plates stacking up. I smiled at him warmly as I left, tipping him a hefty sum.

"Ahh, but how can one resist such flavorful morsels as this?" Hunter laughed. "Give the cook my compliments, if you would, my good man."

And Jellicles are very contemplative, I realized. Sometimes I would sit down with a thought in my head only to suddenly realize I had been pondering it for hours. These grew in length and occurrence as I aged, but I'm speaking of decades. I really didn't notice their actual "happening" until I was thirty-two. And they were strange. For example, once when sitting by a fire, I began to think about my name, both human and Jellicle. _Hunter_. _Munkustrap_. _A hunter of many stripes_... The fire had gone out before I realized that I'd even been thinking that deeply. I tried to keep these "lapses" from happening.

But these spells of thinking seemed to open my mind to new concepts and broaden my perspective. That, I think, was the most drastic change in me. I was a rich brat, you must understand this. Stuck-up, selfish, and egotistical. But I began to feel things. Compassion, I would think to call it. The sight of a homeless beggar in the streets invoked a pity in me at seeing their wretchedness, while before I would have spit on them as I passed. Me with my expensive coats and cars. It was the same pity when I thought about Admetus and that guard. Now I would draw that homeless person up and make it certain that they would be taken to the nearest shelter or hospital.

Of course the snooty aristocrats who shared my class all noticed the sudden change in Hunter Blakeney. And like the fools they were, they assumed the same notion as the maid: that my father's death had pushed me over the edge, reducing "that fine young man who would have grown to be a wonderful statesperson" into a "dim-witted ninny."

And that's where Hunter Blakeney came into play. They thought I was a nincompoop, so that's what I gave them. Let them think that. It was all the better for me should an enemy grow suspicious. After all, who would expect a Jellicle of such stature to act as I did? If I wanted to hide, then the best place I found to be right out in public. And to tell the truth, it wasn't hard at all. Humans are so willing to believe what they see and hear. They don't consider the possibilities. Hunter Blakeney became known to everyone who knew him as a gentle-hearted good-humored lover of theatre whose wits could be surpassed by those of a snail. And I played the part very well. As I said, it wasn't hard at all...

Lord Greene was a visiting Englishman with a fortune to rival my own. A week after he'd allegedly arrived in Manhattan to begin his tour of America he threw an evening dinner party for "all the fine gentlemen of New York." Invitations went out, and I would have politely declined if Bustopher hadn't urged me to come along.

I sat on the couch mostly, surrounded by Lord Greene's numerous maids. All young and beautiful, I can imagine why he really kept them. Then again, he was a widower, which lessened the vulgar fact but didn't cure it. It was none of my business...but then, neither was the Rainesfords' fight. With their youth came that ambition to gossip and flirt, as they did now. I don't understand why they seemed to find me so handsome (perhaps some aspect of the feline blood), but I tired of the attention the moment it began.

"Oh, Mr. Blakeney," one of them swooned, "what's it like being one of the richest bachelors in America?"

"Frightfully boring, my dear," I yawned in the high-pitched voice of Hunter Blakeney. "Yes, demmed uncomfortable all these suits in such a frightfully big house. Sink me, woman! Do have a care with this silk!" I pushed the insistent maid off my lap. "Odd's fish, man," I laughed to Lord Greene, at the same time crossing my legs. "How do you stand the chatter of all these ladies?"

The Englishman laughed. "Perhaps you would rather talk instead, sir?"

Grinning in the way I knew women loved, I stood up, gently taking the hand of the nearest maid. "Say, my dear, have you ever heard the tale _Growltiger's Last Stand_?"

"Why, no, Mr. Blakeney," she giggled, joined quickly by the others. "Will you tell us? Oh, please, Mr. Blakeney!"

"You have such a fine voice, Mr. Blakeney."

"Alright, then, dearies," I laughed, bowing overdramatically. "The story goes like this..."

As I told the story I plastered Hunter's grin on my face and danced about, and by the third verse all attention in the vast main hall was on me. The men, holding their drinks, lined the walls and chuckled heartily among themselves as I swiped up a dinner fork from the table and jabbed it about as though it were a sword. The maids swooned and sighed as I sang in Italian Growltiger and Lady Griddlebone's love for each other, dreaming of themselves as the fine cat I spoke of wrapped in the arms of a handsome, well-muscles pirate king. According to my father's note, though, the werecat Growltiger was far from a Jellicle you would call handsome. And I finally ended it with a fluid Oriental dance, and the applause rang in the room.

"Say, Blakeney," one of the men shouted. "You do have an admiration for cats, don't you?"

Straightening my black suit and turning to face him, I caught sight of Bustopher's knowing face to the side as I bowed to the speaker. "Indeed, I do, sir. Demmed magnificent creatures, those cats."

"I prefer dogs, myself," the man to the original speaker's right raised his glass. "Good for the hunt."

I could have told him a thing or two about hunts...but I merely smiled. "Ahh, but you're mistaken, sir. You see, we are all cats in our own ways."

"How so, Mr. Blakeney?" a maid inquired. Gesturing wildly with my hands in the style of an actor trying to make a point on stage, I indicated Bustopher across the room.

"Simple really, my dear. All of man—and woman—kind have personalities that can be matched with those of cats. Take B.J. over there, for example. Ha! Sink me, what a cat he would make!"

"And I suppose you wrote a song about him as well?" the original speaker cackled, joined by several others. But their laughing was cut short by my reply.

"Odd's fish, man, how did you know?" I put my hands on my hips, face a perfect mask of astonishment.

"Well, er, I..." He was lost for words.

"Will you sing it, too, Mr. Blakeney?"

I turned and patted the maid on the head, resisting all urges to use the purring trick upon the lot of them. "Egads, my dear! I had every original intention of doing so, you know." I exaggerated clearing my throat, then went to it. "_Bustopher Jones is not skin and bones_..."

By the time I had finished, Bustopher's face was a lovely shade of red. "Now, B.J.," I mock scolded. "Change your clothing to match your skin tone or else go back to the way you were. Sink me! Has no one around here any sense of coordination?" And the guests were doubling over in laughter, directed more at my dimwitted antics than at Bustopher.

"Say whatever you wish, Blakeney," the dog-lover said when he finally had control of his laughter. "I still prefer canines."

Raising a brow, I approached him warily, still the center of attention. "Ah, but sir, I think different. For even you are a true feline at heart, sir."

One of the maids stood. "How can you tell, Mr. Blakeney?"

"Why, my dear, you answer a few simple questions."

"And which questions would those be?" the dog-lover asked. For the third triumph that night I went at it again, performing an obscure dance that even had Bustopher laughing.

"_Are you blind when you're born? Can you see in the dark?_

Dare you look at a kind? Would you sit on his throne?"

You would think that after three songs they would have tired from all this talk of cats, but no: they wanted more, encouraged me on. After completing _Jellicle Songs for Jellicle Cats_ I collapsed back on the couch, wiping my brow, insisting I was too tired to go on. Lord Greene told me that with a voice like mine I could have made quite a name on Broadway. I just laughed.

Bustopher and I walked ourselves home that night, strolling down the busy streets of New York in our heavy coats and canes. He started a long speech about my audacity in singing such Jellicle songs, knowing full well that any one of those strange millionaires, or even Greene himself, could have been a vampire or werewolf. He scolded my carelessness, my lack of caution, but I smiled passively through it all. Under his words I knew he was still laughing, knowing that at least I had accepted what I was and was taking full advantage of it.

"Just don't get too wrapped in the part," he finished.

"And what part would that be?" I asked.

"The part you play in public, Hunter. The imbecile. Never forget who you are."

Still speaking in Hunter Blakeney's high-toned voice, I tapped my cane against the rim of my hat. "I say, old boy, no need to worry about that. Everything up here is as ship as a shape can be." He shook his head and mumbled something in German that I couldn't understand, but at least he was smiling. We walked a block more in silent wonder of the bright lights around us before I started singing again quietly...

"_In the hall of St. James' the smartest of names is_..."

"You're a nincompoop, Master Blakeney."

"Thankyou, sir. Demmed proud of it."

Things went on like that for years, and I was 27 before I knew it. Did I mention I was married?

Her name was Adelle Riley. We first set eyes on each other at a dinner party held by Lord Greene in his apartment complex in Brooklyn. (Yes, another one. Apparently I was called back not only for my rich name but to serve as a bit of entertainment.) It was late and I was sitting at the piano in the main hall, slightly drunk, plucking the keys and delivering a rendition of _The Pekes and the Pollicles_. Comical as it was, the merry atmosphere and all-around giddiness made the guests double over with laughter. They loved it. I was playing a finale to the ditty made up entirely off the top of my head when a beautiful blonde in a green dress slid onto the piano seat next to me, watching my hands. When I decided I was finished she touched my shoulder and asked me to play something calmer and more serious. Smiling and complying in Hunter Blakeney's style, I played and sang _Memory_ which left Lady Greene in tears.

We danced endlessly in the ballroom all night, talking and laughing. Her golden hair showered brilliantly in the bright light as we twirled in a waltz, me mistepping once or twice in Hunter's clumsiness. I could hear the chatter of people all around, could see their faces from the edge of my vision, and I knew they were talking about us. "Quiet the pair, they are." "Wouldn't they look simply astounding together?" "My, my, my..." Three months later I dropped to my knee in that same hall and proposed. She was overjoyed, and the complex rang with applause.

Of course the other Jellicles didn't approve of this at all. Skimble continuously reminded me about the consequences of mating a human and that I as a Jellicle had my duties. I laughed and told him to go watch his trains and mind his own business. Several others tried to rally Gus and persuade him to tell me how it was, but the old actor—bless his weak heart—said Jellicles could mate with whoever they choose, even if mating with a human meant that any offspring who came along would have less chances of being Jellicles. After awhile they quit trying.

So Adelle and I were married. Our wedding was glorious. Held in the ball room of my penthouse, pearl-colored banners streamed the windows and from pillar to pillar, their silk glittering in the bright light. A full banquet was set out against one wall, where there would be dinner and dancing after the ceremony. I left it to Adelle's father to attend the invitations, since the only person I could really think of to ask along was my best man: Bustopher. None of the other Jellicles seemed willing to come. Even Bombalurina, who was friendly and social, turned down the offer to attend. I like to think that she would have been uncomfortable in such a crowd, and that she wasn't jealous. And of course Mr. Riley was happy to comply. The man was ecstatic about his daughter's choice of marriage, for the money if nothing else. I didn't much like the man. But the gala was absolutely magnificent! Adelle wore a full-length gown of matching pearl color, her hair bound in lovely purple flowers, and her face could have outshone the archangels. Me, well, I had the usual glamour to match the rest of it: a white tuxedo in gold trim, hair pulled back, and white gloves to top it off. I stood there before the priest, but paid him no attention. I was too caught up in her face, the way she smiled at me...

I know what you must be thinking. _If you so loved her, Munkustrap, then why not spend hours writing about her, describing her beauty, her charm, her laugh_....right? Indeed I could. Those three months when we were courting I wrote her poem after letter after song doing just those things: quoting Shakespeare, imprinting the scent of roses into the paper, and singing for her every chance I could. A classic schoolboy romance...everything that one would expect from Hunter Blakeney. But the truth was that marrying Adelle was probably one of the worst things that ever happened to me. No...one of the worst things I'd ever done. The countless lines and rhymes are still clear in my head, but as I look back on them now, sift through their crumbling words, their meaning lost. The daydreaming fantasies of a true ninny. We were married only a month.

I should have known things couldn't have worked out from the beginning of our very wedding night. We danced and laughed with friends all evening, casting knowing glances across the room at each other. The men around me joked and chided over those vulgar things as humans seem fond of doing; the women surrounding Adelle Blakeney giggled the same thoughts. It was late before they finally began to leave, but we were both impatient. Clasping hands, I kissed my new wife's sweet lips and we started toward the stairs. I can't deny that the urges were there, but I never made it up.

"Hunter."

Pausing at the foot of the stairs, I turned back. Bustopher stood leaning on his cane, human face grave behind his pence-nez. I bid Adelle to stay where she was and hurried back to him, eager to get things done.

"Hunter," he said under his breath so that only we may hear. "Gus and Skimble are outside."

"What?" I growled, instantly irritated. "Do they insist on spoiling everything I do?"

Bustopher shook his head, the slicked-back black hair covering it gleaming under the light. "No...it's something else." He paused, twirling his black mustache. "A coven of fledglings has been detected near the Brooklyn Bridge. They may be holding a kitten..."

I didn't have to think to see his meaning of telling me this. Vampires possessing a young Jellicle... Glancing back, I don't think Adelle saw the pain inside me, tearing me between duty as a Jellicle and duty as a husband. At that moment I hated the two toms more than any supposed vampires.

"You know they do this only to spite me..."

"I know."

"It's my wedding night..."

"I know."

He sounded as unhappy as I, though I didn't see how it could be so. They were spiting me, but it was Adelle who would suffer. She being human, I could never tell her about...me. I had pondered this thought before, but never considered the possibility of it ruining the first night of our lives together. D**n those cats! And d**n myself for what I did then.

I waved Bustopher away and went back to Adelle. Her eyes watched me as I approached, seeming to sense that cloud of worry that hovered over me. I probably didn't have to say anything. Hunter Blakeney smiled warmly and spoke to her.

"You go along, love. I will be up shortly."

"Hunter, what's wrong?" She reached out and touched my face. I could smell her skin, and would have rather shot myself than lie to her. But...

"A development has come up at Lord Greene's, my dear," I said. "It should be a short matter."

The shadow that fell over her face stabbed me deeply, even more at the pitiful quiet of her voice. "Must you go?"

Heaviside, if I could only take her in my arms, kiss away that worried expression that shamed her angelic features. If I could only tell her everything and be honest...about me, the Jellicles, why I had to go...and nothing hurt more than the choke I had to stifle to keep my voice steady. "I must."

I bowed, kissed the back of her hand, and watched with a bleeding heart as she turned slowly and went upstairs alone. I waited until she was out of sight, fighting back the burn of tears. When the bedroom door clicked shut behind her I whirled on my heel, stomping angrily past Bustopher who had sense enough to stay out of my way.

"This had better be worth it..."

But it wasn't. All that was discovered hiding under the Brooklyn Bridge were the pitiful fledgling remnants of what once was a vampire coven. They hadn't the experience enough to know the extent of the few powers they possessed. The group of adult Jellicles sent out—myself included—had little trouble destroying them all. But by the time my feline paws brought me back to the penthouse, I was filthy and exhausted.

I climbed in through the same fire escape and window into my old bedroom that I learned to leave unlatched when I was out prowling. Quickly I showered and changed, in my haste not even combing out my wet hair, and sought out Adelle. It was nearly dawn, and she was asleep in the enormous bed...alone. I sat on the edge and watched her for a long while, my eyes seeing perfect in the darkness. I reached out and brushed a few strands of hair from her face. She stirred somewhat, but didn't waken. I didn't want her to...didn't want to face her. I went downstairs and fell asleep in the cushioned chair behind the desk in the study.

The news of our marriage ran like wildfire through the papers and gossip columns. They of course approved of the uptown merger, calling it one of the best matches of the decade. Heaviside, so little did they really know. The papers depicted our wedding as pretty and perfect as they could without lying, but then exaggeration wasn't necessary. It truly was as grand and wonderful as they said it was. It was after the wedding that they missed. All the better.

Our marriage was never consummated. We slept in different rooms on our wedding night, as much of strangers as we were years before we met. I can't deny the truth: it was my doing that made the wedlock miserable. I found that I was avoiding Adelle every chance I could. Sometimes an entire day would pass without my setting sights on her face. I would be away, intentionally or not, on werecat or human business. I would come home after midnight purposefully just to avoid the confrontation I knew would come when the sun set. I couldn't stand it, this absence of feeling. Not only did I treat my wife the same as I would a strange neighbor, but for a long while she put up with it. That's what I regret the most: forcing her through that period of emptiness when I could have solved everything with a few words. Perhaps she thought it was just a busy time...that it would pass soon. But it didn't.

What was hardest of all in the short time we were married was maintaining my secret life. Adelle would return home from a friends' gathering to find gray and black cat hair on the floor, or on the bedsheets or furniture. She asked me often where they came from, but all I could tell her was I hadn't the demmedest idea. It must have been a broken vent filter. And then my urges to dance and sing. I tried to control them. But even with my greatest efforts sometimes Adelle could come downstairs in the middle of the night and find me leaping about, singing just loud enough to satisfy the lust. But the moment I saw her I would stop, pretending to be tired. "Exercise, my dear," Hunter would tell her. "Good for a body, you know." A few words and I could have told her everything. No more lying, no more excuses. Just the truth.

But I never did.

Bustopher told me that after we'd been married for some time Adelle had sought him out, asking why her husband paid her no heed. His answer was that her husband loved her like no other, he just had trouble showing it, or was afraid to. I suppose that's what made her hold on longer, but also what made her try to make me come to my senses.

I came home one night at around nine, and stopped the moment I stepped in the door. The penthouse lights were all off or dimmed, creating a dark atmosphere. The scent of burning wax drifted from the dining room. Candles. Soft music played barely audible from the same room. I shut the door behind me, stepping in on silent feet to peer into the dining room that led off from the main hall. Adelle stood at the window, gazing out through the blinds. Her slim form was clad in a ruby red evening gown whose skirt glittered in sequence and beads. Around her neck was the necklace I'd bought her as a wedding gift: diamond encircled with a large ruby in the shape of a heart. Not the Crown Diamond, but just as good. The contrast between her alabaster skin, the red dress, and golden hair was enough to steal my breath. It was a perfect storybook setting.

"Adelle...?"

She turned to face me, eyes sparkling in surprise. Apparently she hadn't been expecting me so soon...or so late. "Hunter," she whispered, and moved forward happily to fall into my embrace with a small smile. I held her tight, kissing her forehead gently. "Dance with me," she said, looking up into my face. I was too happy to comply.

It was a thing we hadn't done since our wedding about a month ago. Removing my coat I swept with her across the dining room floor. We laughed. We smiled. Heaviside, how I loved this woman! She was the world to me. Starting at her bare shoulders I let my hands caress down her sides the way I knew she loved: barely touching her. I called it the silk touch. It was sort of a branch off the purring trick. She loved it when I touched her that way. The idea really came from the silk night slip I'd seen her wearing. I saw the way it barely touched her skin, just brushing over her enough to let her know it was there. That was the way I touched her now as we danced. The feeling of love between us exploded.

Our kiss was full and deep, lasting for what seemed an eternity as we continued to move slowly to the music, eyes closed, arms locked around the other. It was I who pulled away to draw breath, a symbolic reference to the way I constantly pulled away from her. But I kept her in my arms, gazing over her face bathed in orange candlelight.

"You are ravishing," I whispered, enunciating each word with a kiss on her forehead. And that wasn't a lie. She laughed softly in her voice of bells and stroked my tied-back hair.

"So are you." We kissed again, quick and tender. I could taste her sweetness lingering on my lips just as her eyes lingered in my mind. She twirled slowly out of my embrace, holding both my hands, and sighed heavily. "I love you, Hunter." I didn't reply, but smiled warmly. She brought our hands down to the side and our faces together again. "I really do." She moved her hands up the front of my shirt and began to slip it off.

"Adelle..."

Those two flat syllables sealed our fates for the night. Her face darkened, happiness lost at the tone in my voice, and drew back into herself. "What..." Her own voice, so sweet and lovely only a second ago, was a quiet whisper, choked in sorrow. I wanted to stop. I wanted to not say anything more, but to tell her I loved her as well. But Hunter Blakeney went on, using my voice, my face, hurting my wife.

"I'm tired."

Heaviside, was this love? Deception, lying, abandonment? Was this how love really was? Not the magical passion displayed in everything else I saw, but as cold and brutal as reality itself. Perhaps being a Jellicle meant I was incapable of love...and yet I felt it so strongly. And Bustopher loved Jennyanydots. That was it: I couldn't love a human. Jellicles forbid anyone to tell their secret to humans. Heaviside, Adelle, love binds me to you as a husband, but duty tears me away from you as a Jellicle.

Once again, we slept separately.

A few nights later, Bustopher's second oldest son went through his Age of Change two months from turning nineteen. Late bloomer, Bustopher said. I went to see him, not only to let him know I was a werecat he could turn to in times of trouble but to get to know his scent. He was called Pouncival. Aptly named, too, for the young tom couldn't sit still. Mature and well-behaved enough as a human, but when he shifted into the werecat form of calico-colored patched coat of gold, brown, white, and rust, he pounced and ran and jumped endlessly. It was quite a task for Jennyanydots to handle, though the humor there was easy to find.

I returned home at an unspeakable hour, the sun rising over the trees of Central Park that one side of my penthouse faced. Instead of bothering with sleep, I hung up my coat and settled down in the study to record Pouncival in my own journal I'd started. I'd copied everything I could from my father's book, and now it was securely hidden behind the _Anthology of Felix Sapiens_ on the study shelf. I wrote down Pouncival's appearance, everything I knew about him, even a small sketch of his cat self. I wasn't a very good artist, but I wasn't bad, either.

I don't know how long Adelle stood in the doorway before I noticed her. I think I heard her breathing. Even after I knew she was watching my back she stood there for a long while. I worked on, trying to ignore the scent of her drifting over the room with the golden sunlight. When she finally moved, it was to approach me from behind. A shuffle of papers as I closed the book in front of me.

She encircled her arms around my neck, her head leaning down against mine with a sigh. My eyes turned up and gazed out the window into the blue sky beyond. The scent of her hair washed over me, her beautiful blonde curls tumbling over my dark blue clothes in a shower of gold. I didn't have to look at her to want her. My heart ached with longing, longing to take her in my arms and kiss away her tears. I'd longed to do these things for a month now, but continuously I refrained from it, pouring salt onto the wound and making it larger. I wanted to spin around and pull her into my lap, but my limbs remained where they were. They didn't feel the pain in my heart. I stayed as I was.

"What happened to us?" she whispered, hugging me slightly, speaking as though to herself. In her eyes, seeing me as none other than Hunter Blakeney, she probably thought she was. "We were so happy before we were married, Hunter. What happened?"

But I couldn't answer. What would I say? Another lie to drive the wedge between us deeper? Or if I told her the truth: that I had to kill a few pitiful excuses for vampires because it was my born duty? That was why our wedding night was ruined? Why would I tell her there was no honeymoon? Because I had to remain in Manhattan in case the call for werewolf-killers arose? I could have used the purring trick to make her fill with affection for me again, but I didn't. That's all it would have been: affection. Not the deep love as I still felt but didn't show. And how long would it last? A day? A week? Long enough for her to accept the truth should I tell her. No...

Hunter Blakeney answered for me. "Before, dearest? Sink me, whatever do you mean?"

That otherwise-comical voice was at that moment the cruelest thing in the world. She drew back a little, hands still on my shoulders. I would have loved for Adelle to treat me with the same indirect cruelty that Hunter treated her with. I knew I deserved it. At least it would have assured me that she still felt something for me. Perhaps not love, but _something_.

"We live together in this place like strangers," she went on quietly, every word driving home the knife. "We sleep in different beds...you remain here all day without so much as a word to me, then vanish at a moment's notice for things you never tell me about." I could detect the tears in her voice, felt her squeeze my shoulders. "What have I done to make you so cold?"

I leaned back over the desk, but I should have turned to face her. "You? Oh, my dear, you've done nothing! You're an angel." Bitter sugar.

"Then why don't you love me anymore, Hunter?"

The deciding blow. But my face was stationary, gazing out the window, colder and more cruel than any possible werewolf or vampire. At that moment the only things more desirable to me than Adelle was for a streak of lightening to descend from the sky and strike me dead. Heaviside knows I had earned it.

"You know I do, love."

I think that was when she gave up. My words, flat, meaningless, drifted on the air, mingling with her sigh of anguish as she drew away from me, back towards the door. "I'll be in my room," she said, and left.

_My room_, she had said. Not ours. This was the distance that I'd put between myself and my own wife. The cost of my Jellicle heritage. Now I was firmly convinced I should have never allowed myself to fall in love. I couldn't show it. Not to Adelle, whom I loved more than life itself. I never should have married her. I would have saved us both all this pain and suffering. But it didn't matter now. It would all end tonight.

I waited, back rigid against the chair, eyes fixed on the same window they had been staring at the entire time, until the familiar click of the heavy bedroom door sounded throughout the penthouse, as empty as our marriage. It was only then did I fold my arms over the desk and let my head slump into them, the tears I'd held back flowing freely. _Adelle...Adelle, please come back. I love you more than anything...come back so I can tell you the truth..._

That was the last time I ever saw my wife.

I must have fallen asleep like that: the price for being out all night. When I lifted my head the windows were dark, the house was quiet. The book was closed under my elbow, the pen exactly where I'd left it. Groaning in stiffness, I rose from the chair, stretching out the pain in my back. Hunger twisted my stomach, and in response I pulled open the bottom desk drawer where I kept a stash of Snickers bars. Of course not the best of nutrition for a grown Jellicle, but then at that point my physical well-being was last on my mind. I thought about going to Adelle, but then what would I say? What would I do? There wasn't anything I could do. I'd hurt Adelle too much. I couldn't make up for it...not in a century. But I didn't have to go find her. She found me.

I'd fallen into one of my contemplative lapses in the study, staring at the empty fireplace. For the life of me I couldn't remember what it was about. She must have moved into my vision, standing directly in front of me, but I didn't come out of it until she spoke. Half the candy bar was still in my hand, semi-melted in its wrapper.

"I was hoping you would come find me tonight," she whispered. I looked up.

She looked...different. Somehow...taller, more fully figured, eyes more intense, hair more colored, overall much more beautiful. But it was a beauty I didn't like. I don't know what I thought of it. Nothing perhaps, for I didn't move. If I had really looked at her at all, as I did when we first met, I would have seen what was wrong. I would have noticed the skin-tightness of her gown went unbroken in streamline. I would have seen that the gown was all she wore. But I didn't. _Here it comes_, was all I thought. _Her revenge for me ignoring her_. Whatever it was, I knew I deserved it. I would welcome it.

She moved towards me without so much as a sound. Her gown didn't rustle, her feet didn't scrape. If my back had been turned I would not have known she was there at all. She rested her hands upon the arms of the chair, leaning over. I looked up into her green eyes, burning strangely. Her crimson lips parted slightly, a low sigh escaping them. Their perfection was irresistible in a strange way, and I opened my mouth to speak. The wrap of her gown covered her form knowingly, dangling ever so generously as she leaned over in front of me. I caught my breath. "Yes?"

"Are you busy?" she asked bluntly. Something hard was in her voice, difficult to place.

"Never enough to keep me from you." Silly talk, as convincing as it sounded. It was habit, and fooled neither of us. She squeezed my shoulder, staring at my face.

"Then come with me..." Her hand drew me up as she began to pull away, and for a moment I resisted.

"Whatever for, dearest?"

"Do you love me?"

Instead of inquiring her voice was accusing. For a moment I was caught off-guard. "Of course I do," I stuttered. This time I rose as she pulled my shoulder again, grasping her hand. She began to lead me towards the door of the study, a smile hovering over her lips.

"Then come."

I went along reluctantly, not expecting anything in particular. One could only marvel at my stupidity. I froze in place when her hand rested on the handle of the bedroom door. I gazed hard at her, for once dropping the idiotic smile, and grabbed the wall firmly. Hunter Blakeney hid in fear.

"Adelle, what's going on?"

I had suspicions by now that something was horribly wrong, and those suspicions were confirmed now as the thing that looked like my wife snarled savagely. Her face contorted in anger, and with strength alien to the woman I knew, she flung me up against the wall. My back hit it hard, the breath knocked from my lungs even as I tried to call out. One white hand was locked on my throat, the other pressing against my chest. She hissed inches from my face, and that's when I saw the fangs.

Adelle was a vampire.

"You left me alone on our wedding night," she shrieked, baring her pointed canine teeth. "You've ignored me for a month now! It's time to pay, _love_."

She tore savagely at my shirt front and reached for my belt as I struggled against her, but even a male Jellicle's strength is no match for a strong, healthy vampire. When she finally removed her hand, it was only to pin my shoulders in place and lean forward, baring her teeth close to my throat. Her strength was like steel, her body rigid as iron against mine. I doubt I would be alive today if her maker hadn't intervened.

"Stop!" commanded a voice. Her head snapped to the left, my right, further on down the dark hall. Held as I was by her claw-like nails, I was afraid to even turn my head to look. "Let him go."

"You said I could have him!" Adelle hissed savagely. I could feel her grip loosen, and slowly I turned to look. The hallway darkened as it went further down, but darker than the shadow he stood in I could see the vampire. Clad in a classic black suit, his face stood out, deathly pale, with a slight grin I could only think of to call presumptuous and eyes that burned green flames.

"You don't want _his_ blood," the vampire hissed, voice deep in baritone.

The look on what was once my wife's face was that of contemptuous anger as she turned back to me, her nails, like claws, pricking my throat. "And why not?"

The older male vampire moved forward, his dark grace mystifying and—I daresay—admirable. In his hand was a black metal-topped cane, on which had been carved the emblem of a snarling wolf. I saw his hair was of the purest chestnut brown, offsetting his deep green eyes. His hand rose and took Adelle's wrist, lowering from my neck. I gasped for air gratefully, unable and unwilling to move as their eyes met. There was no life in the windows to their souls. They had no souls. And there was no love between them. Whatever had made Adelle consent to the dark gift, it wasn't love. Vampires were as unable to love as I was to her...only then did the ironic thought strike me that her relationship with her maker was little different from our own. _Heaviside_...

My father had written several pages on vampires, even more on werewolves. After translating and copying it all, the words were fixed in my mind. But their meaning, their guide, was nothing to me as these two eternal bloodsuckers battled over my fate.

"You're too young," he said, that knowing smile still on his face. "His blood is too rich for you."

"_Why_?" she snarled, savage as a rabid dog. Her fangs were bared in the same manner. "Because he's _untried_?"

Her maker laughed, a hollow sound coming from the undead, and reached into his pocket. He withdrew a small green plant, no longer than my finger. But it was enough to chill my blood.

"No..." I gasped, barely audible. But his grin showed the glistening tips of his dagger fangs, and with a simple flick of his hand he tossed the bit of catnip onto my shoulder.

The plant was so old and withered I couldn't even smell it. But its power was still there. Adelle reeled back with a screech as I dropped to the floor and changed, sudden and painful, that came with the effects of the plant. It was a pain I could stand easily, a slight sting in my gut as my bulk grew, fur and tail sprouted, and when I looked up the dark hallway was bright as day through my werecat eyes.

"Oh my God!" Adelle screeched, jumping back to the male's side. He laughed, shaking his head.

"Not really."

"What _is_ it?"

"That," he pointed with his cane at my forehead, as though giving a small boy a school lecture. "Is a Jellicle, Adelle. A werecat."

"My husband...?"

"Oh yes. Now you see why he never loved you properly." Shaking his head in a stage gesture of pity, his green eyes fixed me in their stare. "A foolish move, Mr. Blakeney. Honestly, what were you thinking?"

All this time I had remained rooted to the floor on my hands and knees, looking up at the two of them. Perhaps it was the male's power keeping me there. Perhaps it was the shock of seeing my wife turned into a parasite of the night. She had to have consented. No vampire could be made under hypnotism. She had met this male...how long had she known him? Days? Since before we met? Just in the night as I slept at my desk? This morning she had been my wife, draped over my shoulder, wishing I could love her publicly as I did in my mind. Now she was gone forever..._why, Adelle? Because I hadn't loved her_, my mind retorted. _If you'd have loved her she wouldn't have sought out the Tick. She wouldn't have wanted to leave you. In her revenge on you she has only hurt herself_.

"Hurts, doesn't it, Munkustrap?"

I didn't even blink when the vampire spoke those words. Of course he was reading my thoughts. And he was right. I didn't care...not anymore. I wanted them to kill me. But he must have seen that, too. For in not killing me he was hurting me even worse. He moved his hand in an arc, and that's when I passed out.


	6. Munkustrap: WereCats 6

****

Munkustrap – Part Six

Oh yes! God knows I am a fool,

A man deluded by his wife;

A figure ripe for ridicule,

Who's lived a vain and useless life.

So be it then! I'll play that game!

I do not give a tinker's damn!

I'll be a fool—it's all the same.

It truly doesn't matter what I am!*

Some words I heard in a song somewhere that I think describe my frame of mind very accurately after Adelle fled to the night. I retreated further behind the mask of Hunter Blakeney, using it to cover my pain, my insecurity, convincing others I was just as well off. The only beings who knew I was fooling myself was me and the other Jellicles.

Some came to my comfort, some didn't. But I didn't want to see any of them. I didn't want their pity. I didn't deserve it. It was my fault she was gone; I'd driven her to it with my lies and coldness. Why should I be the one they felt sorry for? How long would it be before Adelle saw what it was she had really become? Was she strong enough to last eternity without going mad, as vampires will do? Would she ever come back? To kill me? To say she missed me?

That was another thing that plagued my mind: the vampire knew where I'd lived. He'd gotten in with what I guessed was incredible ease. He could have killed me as I slept. Adelle could have killed me. Why didn't they? Common knowledge was that bars and locks had no power against vampires. Only the sunlight brought me comfort the next day as I gathered my wretched self off the floor. The vampires could return any night they chose, if I was asleep or awake. One powerful enough could kill me without lifting a finger. It's thoughts like these that can drive one insane with paranoia. Perhaps only my slight wish to die kept me from that point. I was at their mercy: and trying to figure out how the vampire had known about me. The answer was obvious. By glancing at others' eyes I could manage to tell if they had the vampire or wolf blood. So it seemed only logical that vampires with superior power could tell who and what were Jellicles.

So much for Hunter Blakeney. He was only a defense against the public.

There is a term used commonly among Jellicles: innocent. Instead of a werecat being described as a virgin, they are described as being innocent: having never known the opposite gender. Officially I fell under this category, no matter how misleading I felt the term was. After that night I felt anything but innocent. I'd driven my own wife to eternal night, I'd killed...Heaviside, how many?...I'd lied to the world, I allowed the very Jellicle Leader I respected to die. No, I was far from innocent.

That night after Adelle was gone I fell asleep readily in my father's—or, what was now mine—room. Vampires weren't a worry to me. I missed Adelle dearly. I know I had never been around long enough to have decent conversation, but knowing I was alone in this house, that the woman I loved was now a Tick, brought a tidal wave of loneliness that I'd never known before. I lay spread-eagled on top of the blankets, gazing out the dark window, wishing she was there.

One could say I wished for death in the days that followed. Suicide was never an option. I hadn't the willpower to attempt it, let alone go through with the act. Of course, the more I thought about it, the more easy it seemed. I had guns. Concentrate on something else, raise the barrel to my temple, and pull the trigger. What was so difficult about that? Often I stood before the gun case in the billiard parlor, staring at the gleaming black barrels and mock wood handles. Then I would laugh. I'd never shot a gun in my life.

"Don't do this to yourself, Munkustrap," Bustopher said as we sat in the study before a low fire, sipping drinks. He was the only one I'd allowed to stay for a length of time, to converse with about Adelle. He was the only one I felt I could really trust. "I've seen it happen to too many men."

"What happen?" I mumbled dryly.

"Good, decent men waste away when the women they love die, no matter which way. It's a horrible thing to bear. It's even more horrible to watch."

I had my chin resting against my chest, one hand holding the wine glass, the other supporting my forehead. I stared blankly at the dull orange flames, hearing his words but unable and unwilling to respond.

"It happened to your father."

That made me look up. Bustopher's face was that same clear calm, the unemotional mask that was common not only among aristocrats but among royalty. Though I had some interest about my father's previous life as a werecat, my show of it was minimal. I glanced at his face, then when his own eyes rose I directed them back to the floor.

"After your mother died, he did just as you are doing now."

He stopped, and I mumbled: "What am I doing?"

"You know. Letting your mistakes rule your frame of mind. Why can't you remember your love for Adelle and move on? Where will be others."

This should have angered me, but I was dead inside. "It's easy to say that," I answered, flat, without feeling. "Perhaps it's possible to live that way, B.J., but I can't." I spoke so quiet I don't think he heard me. If he did, he ignored it.

"It was probably only the thought of your well-being that pulled him out of that depression, Munkustrap. No thought of himself. He pulled himself together for you, so that his son wouldn't have to know that pain."

Fine job he did. It was inevitable.

"His second name was Chevailuro, an ancient name meaning 'noble cat.'"

No reaction from me. I didn't care. I was oblivious to any feeling. After recovering from my initial sorrow and depression of Adelle's mortal death my mind went into a prolonged shut down: a state of idle stalemate where my thoughts wandered from topic to topic without a care for anything. Most thoughts didn't even register, leaving a blank void that was longer and deeper than any of the contemplative lapses. I could converse in this state, walk, do pretty much anything except think. It was only a barrier, blocking the pain of feeling and consciousness. But I welcomed that, this shield. In its careless protection Bustopher could have drawn a gun on me and I wouldn't have cared.

"There's no use dwelling on it. It happened. Moping like this won't bring her back."

I blinked slowly.

"Jellicle life is full of loss. I don't have to tell you these things, because you know them. You're a man, a young and fine one at that. You have a good enough head on your shoulders to know better."

I sagged, letting my hand fall. The music of Memory began to play in my head, and I listened to it block out all other thoughts, taking over the bleak void in my head. In a way I welcomed that. Anything to dull the loneliness. Bustopher sighed at my lack of response and stood, straightening his coat.

"Come on, Hunter. I'm taking you out of here."

I don't know why I went with him. Exchanging our fine suits for ruffled "civilian" clothes, Bustopher and I walked the nighttime city streets of Manhattan, up and down Broadway, through Times Square, across the paved entrance of Central Park. Usually the sight of the theatres, the lights, the trees cheered me, but tonight I followed my mentor in the robotic mental state I'd fallen into. Careless...

Chevailuro...noble cat...

Bustopher said something about going somewhere for a drink, and without taking my eyes from the sidewalk in front of me I nodded dumbly. I didn't realize that around us the buildings were growing shabbier, darker, more scarce of population. I didn't notice the noise growing dimmer behind our backs. I didn't notice the scent of alcohol and smoke growing thick in the air. Memory played on in my head in a dull repeat, noticeable though I paid it no attention...

La da....da da da dada da da...

Bustopher had to take my shoulder to stop me. Looking up, the glowing neon sign in front of the streetside bar was flawless and bright, obviously well-funded by its sleazy patrons.

The Cat's Meow.

A Jellicle hangout if I've ever seen one. Bustopher and I stepped aside quickly as three patrons tumbled out the front double doors, reeking of alcohol and singing loudly: "Oooooooooooh, what do ya do with a drunken sailor? What do ya do with a drunken sailor?"

We let them pass, or rather, Bustopher did. He had to drag me into the place, whose atmosphere was as hot as outside. Immediately my head was bombarded with thumping rock'n'roll music, but I heard it at a distance, still not registering correctly. Flashing lights over an open dance floor, a counter bar filled to the brim with patrons lining one wall, the rest of the area sectioned off by pool tables where tables and chairs were scattered. Some were full of drinkers, smoking women, gamblers with their girls hanging over their shoulders, while some just ate and laughed, bobbing their heads to the music. All of this I glanced over without care. Only one sight really caught my attention: and that was a werecat prominent in the crowd of drinkers and dancers. I should have known...

Tugger was, as usual, the center of attention. Crowing loudly, he was up on one of the green felt pool tables, dancing erotically with a human girl dressed as sleazy as the other patrons. A half-filled beer bottle was in one of his naturally tan-skinned hands, his other around her waist. The crazed drinkers and bikers around him cheered and laughed, urging on his antics. Just as I was a dominant in my own class, Tugger was king of his. This was his world. Not mine. But one couldn't help admiring him.

Torn black denim jeans, loose white tank top under a brown vest, black cowboy-style boots, wild untamed mane of golden-brown hair dampened by exertion as he danced to the loud beat of the rock'n'roll music blaring from the band on stage. He bopped hips with the girl, spun her over his shoulder, and with all the effect of a live rock concert himself drove the crowd wild. Then, leaping over tables and chairs, his werecat grace and skill brought him leaping up onto the stage. A few words to the band, and his fine tenor voice—a little higher than my own—rang out with the new melody.

"Power of the night,

The streets are callin'..." **

But his words were barely audible over the cheering. I didn't know the song, nor did I feel comfortable in this crowd of eccentrics. But Bustopher pulled me in, sat with me at a table near a back corner. A wave of his hand and almost immediately a scantly-clad waitress set two bottles of condensing beer before us. Bustopher neatly popped them both open and set one before me. I stared at it, blinking, slumping backwards in the chair.

"Drink, Hunter," he said. "I'm not going to watch you go down like your father." He sipped from the bottle. "He was never the same after your mother..."

My hand on its own reached for the bottle. Cold and wet, I gripped the neck, feeling the cold water droplets trickle down my hand. Their icy coldness seared my flesh, tearing tiny pathways through my nerves that had long since died. They made their way slowly down my arm, awakening the feeling in my hands with their stabbing coldness, only to touch the sleeve of my shirt and disappear. I felt the tingle remain, but didn't make any gestures to wipe it away.

Tugger came to sit with us a short while later. I imagine it was exhaustion that drove him off the stage and away from his adoring crowd.

As much as I'll admit I admired Tugger—his handsome features, his way with females—there was just something I couldn't stand about him. Something about his personality that so irritated me. To this day it still speaks from the back of my mind, and to this day I'm still not sure what it is. This tiny irritation, sharpened to a fine edge by Tugger's slightly drunken merriment, sliced through the wall of uncaring that surrounded my mind and touched my consciousness. I glared at him, tracing my finger over the rim of the glass before me.

"Cops didn't show up at yer place lookin' for me, did they?" he asked, that reckless grin still brightening his features.

"Do you always start conversations with such questions?" Bustopher countered.

"Not really, it's just that..." He glanced over his shoulder, as though expecting to he watched. "Well, chief o' police's daughter showed up here last night an' gotta little...friendly."

I rolled my eyes, but I shouldn't have. Every Jellicle in our tribe new about Tugger's many exploits, but no matter how much any of us may have disapproved, there was nothing we could do.

"You find a lot of women here," I growled, sort of a question.

"I should," he answered, taking a long puff of a cigarette he pulled from his vest. "This is my place." Folding his hands neatly, he glanced over "his place" with an air of authority. If he'd had his hair in control he might have looked somewhat responsible. I watched his profile carefully. Tugger's skin, almost copper colored with a permanent tan, shimmered with perspiration in the smoke-dulled light. His profile reminded me of some movie star I'd seen. You know the kind: the cute-faced muscular actors whose very name can make women swoon. He had the deep-set, wide gray eyes that would have looked puppy dog-ish had I not known him so well. His nose was of perfect proportion, a perfect angle to his mouth which was constantly turned sideways in a half-grin, showing his perfect white teeth. And his lips, when they weren't locked around some girl swept off her feet, were just as perfect, almost feminine as I viewed them. His face was long and narrow, giving the hint he was even younger than truly. As I've said, sometimes I wish I had his appearance.

"So what finally dragged you outta pinin', Stripes?"

That is, Tugger could be called handsome until he spoke. Of course his voice was just as well-pitched, but there was that irritating element again.

"Tugger," Bustopher whispered harshly in hopes I couldn't hear him. Not likely. "I told you not to bring that topic up."

"It's alright, B.J.," I sighed. I was anything but.

"What?" Tugger leaned back innocently, spreading his arm wide. Ash from his cigarette tumbled to the floor. "Guy can't talk 'bout old flings?"

My eyes flashed dangerously, but Tugger seemed to enjoy provoking fights. Actual fighting, though, wasn't his forte. "I'm not you, Tugger. I loved Adelle."

Bustopher knew better than to intervene. Instead, Tugger leaned forward, blowing a smoke ring into my face. "She was a human, too. Ya wanna mate a human? Go ahead, world's full of 'em."

"She could have been a werewolf and I wouldn't have cared. I loved her!" I felt my hand squeezing the neck of the beer bottle, knuckles aching around the glass. I didn't release it.

"Werewolf...good one. Face it, Stripes," he laughed. "Yer better off without her."

This time I did slug him. I didn't even accompany it with an angry shout. Just one, clean, well-aimed punch that caught his jaw and knocked the big-mouthed "born lover" a good distance across the hard floor, chair clattering to the side. I didn't bother to shake the jar from my hand. That punch had felt so good. Around me a few patrons gasped and drew away as Tugger pulled himself up, wiping his face. He came level again and we stared at each other, long and hard. Something happened.

Tugger cried out and tried to grab my shoulder, but I already had my back to him, pushing my way through the crowd. Towards the stage.

If I knew what I was doing, I didn't care then. All the emotion pent up in my head, layer upon layer upon layer, couldn't be contained anymore. Not by slugging Tugger. Not by the mindless wall of anti-thoughts. It crumbled around me, and without shifting and turning the entire bar into a devastated pile of rubble, there was only one way I knew to deal with it.

The band on the small stage had taken a break, or something, but I didn't care. They were gone, their equipment still sat on the stage. I didn't care who was listening, I didn't care if they thought I was a lunatic or a great singer, I didn't care if they recognized me. Hardly anyone was on the dance floor, having retired to the tables until the band returned. I grabbed the microphone, which probably wasn't needed, and sang.

"Memory, turn your face to the moonlight.

Let your memory lead you.

Open up, enter in.

If you find there, the meaning of what happiness is,

Then a new life will begin."

I felt my voice dripping with emotion. I wasn't listening to myself. My eyes were closed. My mind was reaching to the stars, straining with that painful concentration for Adelle to hear, for her to show her beautiful human self to me again. But I knew it couldn't be.

"Daylight, I must wait for the sunrise.

I must think of the new life,

And I mustn't give in.

When the dawn comes, tonight will be a memory, too,

And a new day will begin."

I didn't need music. My voice pulsed with power, drawing all attention. It rose to the ceiling, nearly choking as tears sprang in my eyes.

"Sunlight through the trees in summer,

Endless masquerading!

Like a flower as the dawn is breaking,

The memory is faaaaaaaading!"

I let go. I didn't want to hold on anymore.

"TOUCH meeeeeeeeeee!

It's so EASY to leeeeeeaave meeeeee!

All alooone with the memoryyyyy of my days in the suuuuun

If you touch me, you'll understaaaaand what HAPPPINESS iiiiis!

Look, a new day has beguuuuuuun!!"

The next thing I remember I was bent double in an alley, Tugger and Bustopher supporting my shoulders as I vomited into the garbage. Beer, emotion, sickness, I don't know what it was. As I heaved and gagged on the retch I felt Tugger's sturdy hand grip my shoulder, my own clutching his straining arm. A symbolic reference, perhaps, for things that would come later.

"Take it easy, Stripes," I heard him say. "Jus' take it easy."

Then: "Tugger, take him home."

I swore I would never leave my home again, but it was yet another vow I would not live up to. I don't remember anything Tugger said as we limped together the long distance, but I must have invited him to stay. The sun was rising as we crawled into the penthouse as two cats, one a clean silver tabby, the other a jet black tom with jaguar highlights and an unusually furry mane. I had barely noticed Tugger's other eccentricity: a furry mane that encircled his neck and chest, blending into his wildcat spots and stripes. It was certainly unique, and even more I believed the rumors of Tugger being descended from that few rare Jellicles Bustopher had told me about: the kind who had wildcat blood instead of domestic cats. Even he admitted the chances of it were slim, a million to one, but looking at Tugger in his werecat form I found it easily believable.

And another burden of being an active Jellicle: my body clock had been turned every which way except the right one. Nights of prowling like this, returning home at dawn to sleep until sunset again, then rising the next day to attend some dimwit aristocrat's dinner party. If I had been human I would have died from exhaustion. And there is another strange thing: I wasn't human. Yet there were times when I still considered myself one. As pitiful an excuse as I was when I was young, I still felt a certain pride at calling myself human. To find I wasn't one, to be told I was a young man one day and the next a Jellicle werecat... It was difficult to change the view of myself.

I slept like a dog (pardon the phrase) until around noon the next day. Tugger did likewise, though I imagine it was common for one of his lifestyle. I dragged myself downstairs, sore and stiff, to find a lanky black and spotted werecat sprawled over the couch in the main hall, purring deep and rhythmic. The paper had already been delivered, slipped under the door. Thankfully, for Tugger's sake.

I saw it there. Not front page, but enough to gain the attention I didn't want...

Mrs. Blakeney gone!

I read the one-column article about Adelle Blakeney mysteriously disappearing. One theory was that she'd gone to visit her parents, now living in Maine. Another was she'd left me and the divorce was settled in secret to protect both our good names. The last, which would have been thought of inevitably, was that foul play was involved.

"...her husband Mr. Hunter Blakeney refused to comment on the subject..."

What would I have said? She'd been turned into a vampire. Then they would have known for sure I was a lunatic. But then, what did I have to lose? I had no dignity to save. With complete intentions I rolled the paper tightly and slammed it onto Tugger's taut stomach, never slowing my pace past him. He woke with a jerk, blinking wildly. "What th' H...?" I glared at him venomously over my shoulder, stalking into the kitchen. A rustle of papers from the other room as I heard Tugger sift through the papers, and while I was bent over a drawer a human-formed Jellicle appeared behind me, leaning against the doorway.

"Hey, Stripes, man...I'm really sorry..." The paper was folded under his arm. I slammed the drawer shut and turned to face him, a butter knife held aloft somewhat less-than-threateningly.

"Don't call me that," I growled.

"Hey," he stepped in, arms spread in innocence. "Lighten up. I'm tryin' t' be sincere, here."

"You're very bad at it." I shoved past him back into the living room, holding the knife and heading to a purpose I didn't know. Tugger stood in his usual slouch as he watched me cross the main hall and plop back down onto the couch, driving the blunt end of the knife into my thigh.

"Well, whaddya want me to say?"

"I don't want you to say anything."

"Yeah, well," he sauntered in, gesturing in his own language of movements, "ya know: you come into my place, bust me up for makin' a honest comment, then take over my stage like yer some Kenny Chesney...I think I'm entitled t' a few words."

"Than say it and get out of my apartment."

He knelt beside me, that mischievous glimmer in his gray eyes, that half grin on his face, that tone of voice that irritated me so. "Lemme take ya out. I swear to Heaviside, I kin get'cher mind off what's-her-name. Heck, what's Bustopher know about havin' fun?"

I squeezed the metal knife handle tight. "I'll never take my mind off Adelle, and I've had all I want to know about your way of life."

"C'mon, Munkustrap!" He stood up and dashed to one of the enormous windows, throwing the curtains wide and letting the sun stream in, silhouetting his tall form in a dramatic wash of golden light. "The streets of Manhattan are out there waitin'! A guy with yer money, and yer gonna waste it mopin' about some girl."

"I've told you," I snapped, "she wasn't just some girl! I'm not you, Tugger. I love the women I meet, not flirt with them."

"Did it ever occur to ya that some o' us could have helped you?"

Silence reigned for awhile. He turned to face me, arms crossed over his forever fur shirt, but I couldn't see his face.

"Didn't you think we knew what was goin' on?"

"Of course you did, but—"

"And fer one second did it ever pop up in yer bloated head that some o' us cats mighta cared about what you were going through? That we woulda helped you if ya'd just drop yer fatcat pride an' ask?!"

I looked up sharply. "Help me? How?"

"Well fer one thing we coulda helped you get the truth to her. Don't—! I know what yer gonna say: there's a law. But laws have exceptions, Stri—er, Strap. We woulda supported ya if you told her."

"And why bring this to me now?"

"Well, we woulda brought it to ya earlier if ya'd pulled her head outta yer a** an' saw where yer marriage was headin'!"

"I knew where my marriage was heading!"

"Then if ya loved her so much, why didn't ya do anythin' about it?"

"Get out!" I roared.

His expression remained the same. After a tense silence: "Fine, but you remember this, Munkustrap: we're Jellicles. It's bad enough the Ticks an' Dogs got us outnumbered seven t' one. The last thing we need is some big-headed fatcat dividin' us even more. Us cats is solitary by nature, but we're a tribe. We protect each other. If you need help, ya better d**n well ask for it!"

"Get out..."

Dropping his hand where he'd been pointing, emphasizing his words, the Rum Tum Tugger started backwards, glancing down his nose at me knowingly. "Everyone's gonna make mistakes, jus' be sure it don't happen twice, Stripes."

And he left.

Bustopher died two weeks later.

As though I hadn't hit rock bottom already, this final blow was devastating. I knew his weight and age would catch up to him eventually, and I often told him so. When it finally did, the timing couldn't have been worse.

"I'll be fine," were the last words I said to him. After an argument only a few days after the incident at Tugger's bar.

"He was right," Bustopher had said. "Jellicles are solitary by nature, but Deuteronomy saw that if we were to survive and increase we had to band together."

"What's this have to do with Adelle and me?" I had snapped angrily.

"It's about you not coming to us for help. We try to keep out of other Jellicles' business, but, for Heaviside's sake, Hunter, you could have come to us."

"You knew what was going on. Why didn't you say anything?"

"We had hoped you could solve it on your own."

"We?"

"All of us. Gus, Bombalurina, Tugger, Skimble, all of us knew what was going on."

"You picked a fine time to leave me to myself." I shook my head, unable to understand any of this. "It doesn't make any sense!"

"You're tired Hunter. Go home, rest. Life will continue without Adelle."

"I'll be fine." And I stormed out.

Next to the Everlasting Cat herself, Old Deuteronomy was probably one of the most revered Jellicles to ever live. Of course there was the Great Rumpus Cat and Growltiger, but they were kittens compared to Deuteronomy. Called the Savior of All Jellicles, it was he who led the few remnants of werecats out of Europe and to the New World to thrive once again. Our kind had been devastated by the Great War where we were killed in the thousands by werewolves and vampires. Then came the Dark Ages, where cats were slaughtered for being thought of as witches, or sometimes even werewolves. Ahh, but humans learned their lesson. With little to no cats around, there was no one to kill the rats that carried the Black Plague. Deuteronomy was one of the few who survived, and in the cat guise led his kind across the Atlantic. Some thought he was taken as the Everlasting Cat's mate when he died, or was the Everlasting Cat herself in spirit. Almost everyone who carries the cat blood is certain he was granted a new life. I, however, was skeptical in that theory, for I have yet to see or read about a cat who has lived up to the greatness Deuteronomy is held in. I had to admire that.

But none of that mattered. All I wondered was that what Deuteronomy would have thought of me, of my actions, after Adelle's leaving and Bustopher's death. I found no comfort in my books of records that I had written out, analyzing, theorizing, recording anything I could think of or find connected with Jellicle werecats. I found no comfort in Bombalurina, who contacted me repeatedly, concerned about my well-being. I found no comfort in alcohol, only the aches of hangovers. I found comfort in nothing.

The walking dead. No, not vampires. Myself. Possibly what disgusted me even more than the depths I'd fallen to was my continuous selfishness. No matter what I tried, how hard I thought of Adelle or Bustopher, how much I contemplated on the matter, I always wound up feeling sorry for myself. I hated that even more than the pity I received from others. What right? What right had I to delve into my own self-pity? Didn't I care about Adelle? Didn't I care about Bustopher?

I truly had my doubts.

Bustopher's grave marker stood before me, silent and steady, as motionless as my face as I watched Jenny kneel to plant the flowers neatly around the stone. I stood behind her in respectful silence, hands deep in my pockets, watching her skillful movements. Her black dress was proper for the mourning day, matching the gray clouds that overcast the sky, but the only thought I could find was that black wasn't the right color for her. I could hear her sniffs as she worked, trying to hide them with constant wipes of her nose. I was glad her children were in school for the day.

"These lilies don't fit right," she said weakly. "He always liked roses."

Feeling compelled to reply, I hated the calmness of my voice. "He would have liked whatever you felt was proper."

"You," she laughed through her sadness. "You males are all alike."

I hummed to let her know I acknowledged what she'd said, but didn't reply. She settled back on her folded seat, brushing the strands of graying orange-ish hair from her face, constantly wiping her face with the white kerchief I'd given her. A strange quiet settled over the vast cemetery, her black-gloved hands folded in her lap in the attitude of prayer. I shuffled my feet slightly, unable to look at the widowed Jennyanydots for long without being drowned in my inner well of guilt. Bustopher's will had left three-fourths of his fortune to Jenny and her family's Sanctuary, the other fourth going to me.

"Kneel with me, Hunter," she finally whispered. I complied quickly, silently folding my legs beneath me in a similar manner to hers. I set my hands together in my lap, staring over the sun-orange black-speckled tops of the tiger lilies drooping over the grave spot. The humidity in the air was stifling, the slow breeze just barely swaying the top-heavy flowers enough to notice, not enough to bring relief. Jenny's voice was as soft as that breeze.

"You were a good friend to Bustopher, Hunter. A very good friend." She stopped to take a breath. "I know you probably don't know, but he talked about you an awful lot. He always said how much potential you had, how you were such a good and decent person." She turned to look me in the face, but I couldn't return it. "Don't make him turn out to be wrong, Munkustrap. Please. You've lost a wife. I've lost a husband. We've both lost a friend. Surely we can get through this without killing ourselves."

I shook my head. "It's not just that, Jenny." I felt her hand on my shoulder.

"Then what is it?"

"I miss Adelle. I miss Bustopher. But I...Heaviside...no matter what I do, I can't help feeling sorry for myself, myself, myself."

"And you're entitled to that," she countered. "I don't want to think of myself, either, but I have my children to think about. If I think of only Bustopher, how much I should feel sad that he's gone, where will that leave my children? With all respect, Hunter, Bustopher is gone. No amount of sorrow will bring him, or Adelle, back. You know he wouldn't want us to mourn his passing at the expense of anyone, especially ourselves. It's alright to think of yourself, of your well being, because it will be you who will go on living in and effecting this world. That is exactly what he would have said."

I heard her words just as I'd heard Tugger's and Bustopher's own. It was though the young brat Blakeney had re-emerged, and he was never good at listening.

"There is a tradition," she said, her hand dropping to squeeze my own as she looked back at Bustopher's grave. "A song we always sing for those we wish to go safely to Heaviside."

"I know," I nodded weakly. "Journey to the Heaviside Layer."

We didn't sing loud, just barely raising our voices, but it was enough for Bustopher to hear as we paid our last respects.

"Up, up, up, past the Russel Hotel.

Up, up, up, up to the Heaviside Layer.

Up, up, up, past the Jellicle Moon.

Up, up, up, up to the Heaviside Layer.

The mystical divinity of unashamed felinity.

'Round the cathedral rang 'Vivat!

Life to the Everlasting Cat!'"

That night I wandered the dark city streets, eyes fixed on the ground, the sound of the crowd around me a distant murmur.

I didn't like things getting complicated. I liked things simple: choice A or choice B. Life was like that when I was the rich brat, but now, as a werecat, there were millions of paths streaming out before me, some winding, some straight, some leading right back to where I was, others sailing off into oblivion. Nothing was simple anymore. After years of practicing my shifts, honing them to where I could change in a matter of seconds while barely thinking...after years I finally realized I was right back where I'd begun my Jellicle life...

I didn't want to be a werecat. And I no longer held my fear for God.

Some nights I could find some contentment sitting by the glowing fire in the study, clad in my royal blue bathrobe that was beginning to show its wear, sipping a cold drink with only my thoughts as company. That was the kind of life I wanted...quiet, solitary, away from the people and things around me, that I knew could hurt me. Dying friends...bad marriages...

Instead, I was walking alone through a dark, wet alley in one of the worst parts of Manhattan, and a prostitute was following me.

Perhaps she thought her footsteps were masked in time with my own, that I never once looked over my shoulder so I didn't know she was there. But no one was invisible to a cat's senses. I smelled her strong rose-scented perfume to mask the drugs and nicotine on her breath, heard her rustling skirts and beads. It wasn't long before she called out: "Need a date tonight, honey?"

I slowed, stopped, and turned. Her face emitted from the shadows, rings under her eyes and a tough complexion. Under a black leather jacket and low-cut purple shirt I could see the beginning of a rose tattooed on her chest. Disgusting. She sauntered up to me, taking my arm, seeming to be admiring my clothes. "What's a rich boy doing out here all by himself so late?"

For a moment I just blinked and looked at her. I could see her colorless eyes searching my face. My answer was dull, slurred. She probably thought I'd been drinking.

"Waiting for death."

She made a face, whether pouting or laughing was hard to discern. "Something bad happen, honey?"

"My wife died."

"Oh, poor baby." She slipped her arm over my neck, and we began walking again. I must have started singing again... "What was that?"

I don't know why I kissed her. I suppose I could give the usual lame excuse of being a depressed, lonely man vulnerable to the world, having lost his wife and best friend. But I'm not going to make excuses. I should have known better. So what I was thinking when I grabbed her, locked her in a grip inescapable, and pushed my face against her nicotine-stained breath....Heaviside, the Twins would have to tell me. But she seemed to welcome it. One last bit of business before going to buy her nightly drugs.

For a moment it was too much. My wife was gone, my best friend and mentor dead, what had I to lose? My so-called innocence? Bulls**t! I let the harlot push me up against the wall, reaching for my wallet as she kissed my neck. I felt neither.

Her breath swept over me, and I touched her hair. It gave. I smelled it over her shoulder. Fake. A wig. That didn't bother me at all, but the thoughts that came with it: the sudden concentration that accompanied concern brought me back to myself. At least, I think it did.

I brought my arms up and pushed her away. "Get away from me," I hissed, turning my face away to wipe away the taste of cigarettes on my mouth. Stumbling back from the sudden rejection, she crossed her arms, appalled.

"Hey, buddy, what's your problem?"

Too much practice. I shifted fully in three seconds.

"Jesus C—!" she screamed and took off down the alley. I let her go, not consciously shifting back into pathetic little Hunter.

I fell to my knees, letting the tears of sorrow and anger finally let loose...flowing down my cheeks unheeded. My body pitched forward, hands and arms landing deep in a puddle. It all hurt so much... Adelle... Bustopher... my father... I looked up, seeing a dim form move through the darkness before me. I didn't react to it; there was no feeling inside me...it was only pain. The edges of my vision grew darker, and even when the ghostly, distorted specter moved closer and held out its arms, I only bent double, feeling the agony sear through my gut. I shut my eyes and let the pain pound me into the ground, no softer than a sledge hammer. I rolled onto my back, feeling the cold water soak my garments and swirl around my hair. I let myself go with the agony, limp, waiting. Waiting for the sun to rise and bring an end to all the suffering, as though it would. The last sensation I felt was the figure's arms enveloping me as my vision went. I welcomed the darkness...it was a friend. A friend that filled the holes inside me and deadened the pain.

My vision and cognizance returned, slowly and fuzzily. I was still on my back, but it wasn't the wet street of an alley that I lay on. It was soft and comfortable, a luxury as though I hadn't felt it in years. Something blurry moved to the side, and I tensed.

"Look," said a voice. "He's awake."

The previous night's events came whirling back into my mind, accompanied by a dull throbbing. Cold... Bustopher... the woman... These thoughts shot off a signal in my mind, and I sat up.

Or rather, I tried to sit up.

"Blast it!" I cursed, at the same time a firm pair of hands pushed me back down.

"Don't get up," said a sensuously soft voice. "You're safe."

My vision cleared, and the face leaning over me belonged to Bombalurina. Laying my head back against the soft pillow, I let the muscles of my face relax as best they could and gaze over the room I lay in. Bombalurina wasn't alone. A shadow, then the Oriental features of Cassandra appeared. She held a glass of water out to me which I took readily, draining in a few gulps.

"Good thing we found you last night," Bombalurina's beautiful face smiled, "and not some werewolf out prowlin'."

"Why didn't you leave me?" I said, rolling onto my side. My voice was quiet and dry, itching when I swallowed. But I didn't care. I gazed around the room.

The small living room of a New York city suburb house. Cassandra's, no doubt, since it was known well by all Bombalurina inhabited the top floor to the mechanic shop her human self worked at and owned. The delicious smell of baking bread drifted over the room, and by the open blinds I could see the orange sky of sunset. "Have I been here all day?"

"Pretty much," Cassandra's thin, reedy voice came from a distance. "We thought about waking you, but—"

"But you look so cute when you sleep," Bombalurina cut her off, smiling sweetly. Cassandra left the room, not seeming to mind the interruption. This time the red-haired female helped me sit up on the soft couch, taking a seat beside me. "And what would you have done if we left ya there?" She crossed her legs, one brow raised expectantly. "You didn't look exactly in good shape."

"You should have left me," I growled, looking away. I can credit Bombalurina with being harsh and free-spoken sometimes, but compared to the way her demeanor can flare in sudden flame as red as her fur is truly surprising. Her black-shoed feet were a blur as she kicked, and I was upside down on the floor.

"Listen, fatcat," she growled, standing over me with her painted red nails pointing as viscous as any claws. "I'm sorry you lost yer wife. We all are. You've had your grieving' time, but—Everlasting Cat!—get over it! You ain't the first person to lose someone. We're sick of all this grief yer flauntin'. Come back to reality!" She stopped suddenly, realizing just how close she had bent to my face, and backed away, regaining her cool composure with her usual attractive posture of one hip jutting to the side with both her hands there. "Besides, your face is too darn good-lookin' to ruin with all those frowns."

In the other room Cassandra laughed loudly, having heard the whole thing, but I failed to see any humor in her statement. Slowly, I pushed myself up, brushing out my dry grime-crusted shirt. I didn't meet her eyes, afraid of what I'd see there. The compassion I didn't want...the undying friendship.

"Whoever said it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all should be shot," was my final comment before I stalked out. Perhaps in the eyes of the world I was a man, strong and mature... but at that moment, to myself and to my friends, that was the last thing I resembled.

If I was angry at Adelle's mortal death, I was now furious at Bustopher's. There was no more mindless robotic shield that protected me: I embraced it. I stalked the city as night fell, and two stray dogs, a flock of pigeons, and a stack of newspapers suffered my wrath before I even thought about going home. On cat paws I ran over the sidewalks and curbs, dashing around feet, under cars, burning the energy that coursed in my veins, fueled solely by anger. I didn't cry. My tears had been spent. I ran.

And I stopped when I ran into a cat.

Solid black, it hissed and backed away from me from where it had been crouched over a half-eaten fish. In my own cat form I was nearly the same size, the same shape. And this was no Jellicle. It was a regular alley cat.

Stupidity. Instinct. Feral. These were the scents I detected from the cat. Idiot...what had I been expecting? Some kind of kinship with the animal whose blood I shared? A bond? A link between breeds? No, this animal was stupid. It was ruled by instinct, the need for survival. Not rational thought and passion that ruled us werecats. It was the embodiment of aloofness: it didn't care that its parents and siblings were probably dead, that it may very well be killed tomorrow by a careless human, that any mates or litters it may have found may very well have starved to death in the streets. I envied that. I wanted that aloofness. They felt no pain of loss. No sorrow for the fallen. They did not know what it was like to love and lose.

I felt as though I'd plunged into a pit as deep as Hell, a pit of darkness and sorrow. But things were just getting started for me.

I hadn't even met Demeter yet.

* = Part of 'Prayer' from The Scarlet Pimpernel.

** = Heard in the movie Critters sung by Terrence Mann, I don't know the rest of the song.


	7. Munkustrap: WereCats 7

****

Munkustrap – Part Seven

Along with most of our magicians, record keepers, and best Jellicle Leaders in the Great War, the ancient language Jellicles spoke among themselves was lost. This may have not meant much overall, excepting that, over time, the second names of Jellicles began to grow more and more modern. Adapting to the use of other languages was simple enough, but terminology among the werecat kind when they turned to English I think will forever remain complicated.

Innocent has already been spoken for. Another word, in my opinion, that has several mistaken meanings is _mate_. Among Jellicles, mate has two uses: noun and verb. A Jellicle tom and queen may be _mates_, as Jenny was Bustopher's _mate_. Or when a Jellicle _mates_ another, they are making their vows and having a Jellicle marriage. But the phrase _to mate_ is entirely different. _The act of mating_ is by far my favorite subject to speak about, yet no matter how much I may despise the very thoughts I couldn't control them. It is Jellicle nature, as it is human nature, as it is animal nature. Thus it was mine.

That is the only excuse I can think of to justify my thoughts in the time that followed. I can't say that neither Tugger, Bombalurina, or Jenny's speech gave me any more optimism or cured my mind of its ills, but as time passed I suppose things around me did get better. As was with the cat, as was with Admetus. So it was with Adelle.

I was invited to a poker game at the home of the man who attended Lord Greene's dinner party that first night...the one who preferred dogs over cats. Of the brandy and cigars that were offered to me, I accepted only the drink, doing my best to avoid breathing in the heavy smoke that was a stifling blanket around the five of us. And after winning them all nearly out of everything they'd brought, it was a small wonder why I was never invited back. But that's not important. Every cent of money I won that night I turned over to a women's crisis center in the city, and went to bed that night with a horrible headache.

Sometime in the night the phone rang.

It was more habit and convenience that made me keep the phone at the bedside more than preference. Jerking awake, heart racing, I automatically groped about in the darkness until my hand closed around it. _Who the devil_...? "Hello?"

"Munkustrap..." said a weak voice. I sat up. I knew that voice.

"Cassandra?"

"Could you come over?"

I glanced at the clock. 2:14. "Cassandra...? Whatever for?"

"Please..." I could detect a sob. "I need you..."

Confused and only half-awake, I pushed off the thick covers. "Yes, of course..." No sooner had I spoken then a dialtone took over her end, and grumbling I put the phone up. What could Cassandra possibly want this time of night? Or...morning? Pushing myself out of bed, I rubbed my eyes and stretched, absent-mindedly gazing out the window. The night was clear and crisp, from the height of my apartment the full moon was able to be seen over the lights of Manhattan. I thought nothing of it, and changed into my set of forever fur clothes.

Only a silver-striped cat could be seen leaving the apartment.

I hadn't realized my mistake until I was already at Cassandra's human dwelling near the Hudson River. As a human I approached her door, knocked quietly, then glanced around as I waited. The area was civilian, not shabby but not extraordinary. For awhile I wondered what it would be like to live here, with neighbors on both sides, in a place that was probably just the size of one-third of my penthouse. I didn't wonder for very long.

The door opened and I was yanked inside by a strong, slim brown paw.

Everything happened so fast.

The only sound I was able to make was a gasp of surprise as Cassandra pushed me up against the wall, claws digging into my shoulders. For a moment I was too stunned to move, staring only at the moon-lit window across the dark living room as she pressed herself against me, breathing heavily in my ear. I was frozen, mind, limbs, thoughts, and not just by Cassandra's sudden aggressiveness.

It was the scent that surrounded her.

Thick, dominating, it rose up around us like a pulsing entity. The scent of it burned my nostrils, and seemed to flip an unseen switch inside me. A gas fire exploded in my gut, my blood carrying it to every inch of my body in searing agony. It pushed a cry from my throat, but that cry wasn't human. It was the sound a cat would make, and logically so, for I had shifted involuntarily into my tall, muscular werecat form. Cassandra's scent somehow did that. The utmost description of sudden, unexpected lust and desire couldn't come near to the feeling that swept over me. The blazing scent grew stronger near Cassandra's flanks. In complete reaction to the enticement of that scent my arms rose and pulled Cassandra close, crushing her into me so that our limbs intwined and our scents mixed.

Cassandra was in Heat. The full moon outside didn't help, either.

Bustopher had told me about queens in Heat: the madness they can incite in males with their presence, their scents. The Heats are supposed to last about two weeks, but the average female didn't have to put up with the pain and suffering caused by her season for that long. There were two ways to end a female's Heat: wait the two weeks, and the other...that one phrase that meant so much: _to mate_. I was a male. Cassandra was a female. It has probably occured to you what she had really called me over for by now, and it occured to me, too.

But, Heaviside, the things I was thinking in that small moment we were embraced: how much I wanted Cassandra, to feel her soft downy neck fur under my chin, her claws raking through my fur, her whiskers pushed against mine. I will not lower myself to the use of vulgar terms, but, to put it plainly, I wanted to have her. I'm not ashamed by it. I couldn't have helped it. Nothing can withstand nature. But at the same time, it's embarassing. Instinct is one of the most powerful forces. It's amazing I was able to gain control of myself before...well, you know.

"Cassandra..." I rasped, voice dry and cracked. I grabbed her arms and pushed her away, my grip tight with exhileration. She had the face of a frightened child as she gazed at me, eyes wide in the moonlight, the tips of her fangs visible in her mouth that gasped for air doggedly. Her entire body seemed to go limp, buckling weakly as I held her at a distance. I saw the longing in her slanted feline features, and knew that there was the same longing in mine. _Desire_... "We shouldn't do this."

"Munkustrap," she gasped, just as quiet, as pain-ridden as her face. A female's Heat was not pleasant. It was painful, driving their feminine minds insane with that one instinct _to mate_. That was nature's way of keeping our species alive. And there it was again: that element of insanity. It makes one wonder how Jellicles survived at all. "Please, you have to help me...I can't take the pain..."

"It's the full moon that's doing this..." I brought my face forward, our foreheads leaning against one another. A few strands of my mane tumbled over my feline ears, and she pushed them back. She was crying. I understood her sorrow, her pain, in a way that I never would have if her scent hadn't been tainting my mind. I coughed a sob, the desire drawn by her Heat linking us together. "Can't Tugger...?" I somehow managed to rationalize. She shook her head, body shaking with rapid breaths.

"I couldn't find him," she gasped. "You were the only one...please, Munkustrap!" She was crying fully now, her body trembling visibly even as I held her away. "There won't be any feelings...no one will have to know...please..."

The instinct was too strong. If I tried, perhaps I could have turned and ran away. All the same I didn't try. I couldn't stand to see her suffer like this. The scent stifled my mind, rekindling the fire in my gut. I knew what I had to do. My grip released, and we fell into each other again, succumbing to instinct and the power of the full moon. That was the end of any resistance I might have had.

"I'll do what I must," I rasped, as though in a trance. I doubt she heard me, already advancing, nuzzling her cheeks and chin against me in pure feline gestures. Perhaps my intentions were pure: helping a friend through a time of pain, but that seemed no excuse for what I was going to do. "What I must..." I took her in my arms, thoughts lost as I brought an end to her Heat and the pain it caused her.

I don't remember anything after that, and in a way I'm grateful. Cassandra and I were friends, and that was all. I had never expected to find myself in a situation that could accurately be described as a one-night stand, but to be honest I wasn't as disgusted with myself as I thought I would be...perhaps not as much as I should have been. But Cassandra didn't lie. She never brought the incident up again with me, or anyone. It was pure luck and Heaviside's blessing that Cassandra never bore my kittens. (Or perhaps she had been taking precautions.) But even with all this, knowing I'd ended her pain without further harm to myself, I found it hard to look her in the face.

In a way, helping Cassandra revived me. The first thing I remember after succumbing to nature's intentions was stepping slowly down the front steps of her home. Cassandra was nowhere in sight, though my clothes and human skin reeked of her scent. Her _normal_ scent. Unable to remember what had happened, it seemed as though the deed was never done. And as I walked home, hands in my pockets, face gazing around me in all directions, it was as though I saw the entire city in a new light.

The rising golden light of dawn shone like stars off the windows of the tall building that rose upward in a strange slanting design. The air rang crisp with the laughter of people on their way to church this Sunday morning, couples, and children. Store owners swept off the sidewalks as their doors opened and OPEN signs were displayed. Sidewalks became more cluttered as vendors rolled out their carts, the scent of salty pretzels, hotdogs, and soda pop rising from their wagons. All these things I had seen and noticed before, but never really _appreciated_ as I did now. How could one act I didn't even recall alter my perception so?

What was even more remarkable was the lack of feeling. I didn't love Cassandra, I barely knew her, yet we had shared the most intimate of embraces. As I walked back to my penthouse along the bustling streets I didn't think about Cassandra at all. Insensitive, unthoughtful, maybe...but I was too caught up in my surroundings to think of the female I'd had a relationship with and didn't remember. Even at that thought, I laughed. I said it out loud.

"I made love with Cassandra."

Just the thought was hard to believe. So often I had heard that loosing one's _innocence_ was a defining moment in anyone's lives, and yet I felt no different. Other than seeing the world in light instead of dark, to be able to think of Adelle and not be overcome with guilt, nothing had changed.

Perhaps it was just the knowledge of not being officially _innocent_ anymore. Whatever it was, I felt as though a burden had been lifted from my shoulders, and I loved it.

Tugger surprised me by bringing it up a few days later.

After another night of successful poker, I at first surprised him by showing up once again at "his place" and even moreso when I accepted his challenge for a game of pool. (So it wasn't billiards...nine ball was simple enough.) Of course, he quickly had me beat, looking the ideal male image as he leaned over the table with his cigarette puffing, taking aim on the spheres littering the table. Everything was idle chat until our third game.

"So," he said, entirely out of the blue, "what happened with Cassandra?"

I suddenly became very aware of my breathing. Strange, this sudden realization, for just a second ago I could have sworn I breathed easily all on my own. Now I felt like every breath was a labored heave as I stared at Tugger, the room suddenly growing very hot. "Cassandra?"

"C'mon, Stripes," Tugger laughed as he bent and took aim on the white ball, lining it up with the six. "I know when a queen's been with someone an' it wasn't me." He drew back, biting his lower lip. "Cassandra was in Heat when I last saw her. The next mornin' she shows up, fresh as cold beer. I put two an' two together, and..." He shot the strick forward, a loud crack as the balls connected. He straightened, watching in satisfaction the six drop neatly into a corner pocket. "Voila!"

I pawed my pool stick, unsure how to respond. My eyes followed him as he moved around the table, studying and planning his next move. "How...did you know it was me?"

"It's a gift," was his simple reply as he took aim again on the seven. "So how was it?"

Raising my stick in the manner of a quarterstaff, I glared. "That is not a topic I'm willing to discuss with you."

He shrugged. "Okay, but you just admitted it."

Aghast, I only watched in rising irritance as he knocked the seven into another pocket. Circling the table twice, he brushed by me as he sized up the eight. "Hey, don't worry about it," he saluted with his stick. "Secret's safe with me."

"Thanks Tugger," I said with utmost gratitude.

"Eh, don't mention it. Ain't like helpin' a queen through Heat is a bad thing." He took aim. "Jus' as long as she don't have yer kittens." Crack. Eight ball, side pocket.

Having not shot at one ball yet, I sighed, preparing for defeat again. "Have you ever...Tugger...?"

Raising his brows, that cocky grin split his face again. "Are you kiddin'? All the time!"

"May I ask who?"

He bent down, lining up the cue ball with the nine. "Bombalurina, mostly." He aimed.

"You mean that as in more than once?"

"Yeah." Tugger suddenly stopped, the grin fading. From where I'd taken a seat on a stool nearby, I leaned forward curiously.

"What?"

Tugger paused. "I think I'm fallin' in love with her..."

"Oh, Tugger," I leaned back, hands on my pool stick. "I'm so sorry!" To be honest, this confession surprised me. I had never imagined Tugger in love with anyone, as much as he was rumored to have so many affairs. I was sure whether to praise him or pity Bombalurina.

"Yeah, well, can't exactly help those things." Stone-faced he drew back and shot, lifting his stick as he watched eagerly. Then just as sudden he reeled back, face contorting and cursed. I only grinned.

He had scratched.

"I say, what was that, old boy? A nincompoop, did you say? Why, thankyou sir! Those are rare to come by these days. What was that you asked? Where was I last night? I say, why so? Oh, yes, yes, that is a good reason. Sink me, man, I was out netting butterflies in the garden! Where else would a gentleman be on a warm full moon? Hello? Hello?"

Good, he'd hung up. I slapped the cell phone closed with a grateful sigh. I'll admit that as much as I enjoyed toying with salespeople who managed to stumble over my cell phone number, after a point it grew tiring. I stretched out leisurely on the soft back seat of the stretch limousine, feet propped up on the side cushion, gazing out the tinted windows at the scenes on the sidewalk that weren't moving. Picking up the intercom phone, Hunter said to the driver: "I say, Mr. Barnes, any clue to what the demmed delay is about?"

The driver's voice answered from his own end. "Not yet, Mr. Blakeney. The triffic is as thick as molasses. Shall I call for another car to go the other route?"

"No, no," I laughed. "There's no rush."

In fact, I was relieved. This luncheon I had been invited to I was less-than-enthusiastic about arriving, and the traffic jam would probably last long enough to delay me sufficiently. A gift from Heaviside. Leaning my head back, I closed my eyes leisurely. Perhaps I could catch up on some sleep.

Munkustrap...

I opened one eye. The driver hadn't said anything, yet the sound of my name was distinct in my head. Of course it couldn't have been the driver. I closed it again.

Munkustrap... Stronger this time. I raised my head and glanced around. I had known this type of speech before. Jellicles called it Mind Speak, as you can see why. It was a Gift some Jellicles possessed, a sort of telepathy that allowed them to communicate with mere thoughts. Only two Jellicles in our Manhattan tribe I knew posessed that Gift.

Coricopat and Tantomile.

Immediately I sat up, rigid at attention for the next bit of transcript. I hadn't the Gift of Mind Speak, so I could not directly answer the Twins, but by acknowledging their presence in my mind, it seemed that they were able to detect emotions as strong thoughts. They must have known I heard them.

Munkustrap, we need you.

They must have been near to be speaking in my mind with such steadiness. Glancing about quickly, I stared out each window for a glimpse of their human or cat forms. Nothing. Of course my immediate concern for whatever they had brought to attention was well-justified: if there was one thing I learned with my experience with Adelle, it was the importance of Jellicles asking for—and responding to—calls of help. Yes, that I learned _very_ well.

We're in the factory building on your left. Hurry.

Spotting the building quickly, only a short dash down the sidewalk, I picked up the phone intercom hurriedly and told the driver: "Say, old chap, that luncheon sounds awfully inviting, don't you think. Tell you what, I'll just walk my gorgeous self to the bally apartment and you go back to the building when this demmed traffic clears up, eh?"

Mr. Barnes made a few sputtering noises, but I allowed him no time to reply. "There's a good man. Toodle pip!" And I leaped from the limousine, weaving quickly through the non-moving lines of cars until I was on the sidewalk. I ducked my head low and pulled my jacket closed to hide my suit as I sped along, concentrating on the voices in my head.

My, but that sounded strange!

The Twins were waiting in their Egyptian-featured human forms just inside the abandoned building that was due for demolition soon. Copper-skinned and dark-eyed, both their strangely-lit eyes settled on me, seeming to blink only when they shifted their sight direction. They always had a stare that was disturbing, and never seemed to lose their Egyptian-like grace. But, like Tugger, Admetus, Bombalurina, and every being I seemed to come into contact with, no matter how much I liked or despised them, there was always one nameless element that was entirely the opposite. I suppose that's just how I am: willing to believe that nothing is entirely evil or entirely good. I'm getting ahead of myself again.

Perhaps I had been the first Jellicle that they were able to contact, which would have explained the urgency with which they called me. But whatever the reason, the dark intensity of their stares seemed to convert to relief as I slipped into the building through a side alley entrance. Sometimes I wondered if the two insane Twins had any emotions at all, for I have yet to see their faces change from the flat, unemotional masks they adorn day and night. The two were certainly strange, but not really dangerous.

"What is it?" I gasped, slightly out of breath. Naturally fit as a Jellicle, perhaps, but I still led a fairly unathletic life.

Each taking one of my hands, I followed Coricopat and Tantomile hurriedly through the warehouse, our footsteps echoing off the bare walls, and up a flight of stairs.

"He has been here since last night."

"We found him."

"Found who?" I asked.

"Admetus's son."

I paused at the doorway to the room they'd stopped me before, frowning. "Plato?"

We went into the room, and I was aghast. The musky stench of death immediately swept over me, making me swallow to keep from gagging. Death and blood. But what I saw was even more disturbing. Plato, in human form, crouched in a corner with a blanket over his bare self, shivering and whimpering. In the middle of the wooden-paneled floor was a large bloodstain, a trail of it dragging away, and piled against the wall: a dead human.

"We are going to get rid of it," Coricopat said as my eyes fell to the dead man.

"As soon as night falls," Tantomile finished. After taking in the situation, I realized what had happened. Plato had gone through his Age of Change, and killed that human. In that moment I understood his confusion and fear, as much as my own had been, and pitied him horribly.

"What am I to do?"

The Twins answered in trade-off.

"Take him in and clean him up."

"Teach him about what has happened."

"Tomorrow morning he can be returned to his home."

"And only if he feels he is ready."

I look at them, and in silent agreement they both nodded. Grimacing slightly to myself, I removed my coat and approached the youth slowly, kneeling beside him. His chocolate skin and almond eyes reminded me so much of Admetus, and to see the fear in them was torture. Gently I said his human name and took his shoulder. He looked up at me with the face of a lost child. "H-Hunter Blakeney?"

"Yes," I nodded, smiling a little. "Come along, let's not stay here." I helped the young man up, draping the coat over his shoulders in place of the filthy blanket, and called for another car to come the uncongested way to pick us up.

It must have looked suspicious: Hunter Blakeney bringing home a young boy in only a heavy overcoat. But to be honest it was not the first time any of the drivers had seen such an event. And again, Hunter Blakeney rescued me. They made the assumptions that it was just another urchin I'd picked up from the streets and would turn over to a shelter or hospital as soon as I'd fed and clothed them properly.

Actually, the truth is: when you're rich, no one argues with you.

"Sleep well?" I asked gently as Plato emerged from the guest room I'd settled him in the next morning. Rubbing his eyes wearily, he approached the center of couches and chairs were I sat in the main hall. He was clad in the clean sweatshirt and pants I'd provided for him, but overall his appearance was none the better.

"Not really," he answered groggily. He plopped down in one of the chairs, chocolate-brown hands gripping the arms steadily.

"I suppose you have a lot of questions..."

"Yeah," he said. "I do."

Setting aside the book I'd been reading, I settled back and made myself comfortable. "Ask away."

And thus I was Plato's mentor, as Bustopher was to me.

And to be entirely honest, it wasn't as great a task as I had originally thought. It gave me the feeling of being a schoolteacher lecturing a student. Perhaps I approached it differently than Bustopher had. I answered all of Plato's questions breifly and honestly, explaining to him in much the same terms Bustopher had used in telling me about the Great War, a Jellicle's duties, the three names, our enemies, the Jellicle Ball, anything I could think of.

"This is unreal," Plato growled after hours of talking. I couldn't help but grin in secret to myself. I looked at him and saw myself so many years ago, saying those same things to Bustopher. I tried to imagine what Bustopher was thinking then by analyzing my own thoughts. _You'll eat those words later_, I thought. _After you learn to appreciate what it is you are, you will grow accustomed to it_.

Of course these were only my first thoughts. Plato wanted to go home. A flick of the wall panel to the chauffers below, a few words, and he was on his way. I don't think he held any gratitude towards me, but unlike myself at that point in time, he believed what I said. After what had happened, he was probably willing to believe any explanation. What had been different about me? Why hadn't I wanted to accept the truth as Bustoher told me?

It must have been just personality differences.

After Plato left I sat down to think over the question I had raised to myself: was being a Jellicle a blessing or a curse? At first I would have thought both. Who wouldn't have enjoyed possessing the senses of an animal? To know and feel the power of feline strength and agility? To be able to change shape into that of a cat and roam the city as one pleased? Things I remembered dreaming of when I was young. That freedom. That strength. But at what price?

The madnesses. The constant fear of vampires and werewolves. The secrecy. Being unable to control one's urges under the full moon or near a female in season. Being outnumbered by enemies that could be lurking anywhere, just as hidden as we were. Being unable to tell our best friends and spouses about why we were _really_ out all night. Having a tragically short life...

Even after years of contemplating, I think the question of whether being a Jellicle is a blessing or a curse is one of those questions better left alone.

It's been said that Jellicles are performers by nature, dancing and singing being part of our heritage and everyday life. Blast, in our very _nature_. Considering this, Broadway was a blessing. Often in my feline stripes I would pad down the length of Broadway, gazing at the names in lights, the crowds lined up outside the buildings, the smartly-dressed ushers and doormen at the fancier places. There was one theatre, though, that I admired more than the rest. Why, I'm not sure.

It was called the Winter Garden Theatre. Dark and run-down, it hadn't been used in years. It seemed a miracle that it was still standing. An enormous billboard hung over the front entrance, a filthy white with the tattered paint still hanging from whatever show had last been playing there. In my stripes I often approached the main double doors, boarded and covered in graffitti, sniffing the cracks beneath the doors. I circled the building for an entire day, looking for a way in, but I could find none. Even as a cat. It was a problem easily solved.

I bought the theatre.

Not only had I resolved to no longer see and empty theatre there on Broadway, but I was making a step to ensure that Jellicle Cats would always be remembered. Maybe not as the werecats we were, but at least they would be remembered. Taking the songs I had known and written down about us werecats, I began to write a musical show. I'd already known a little about music writing and reading, having grown up in a high-culture home—it was inevitable—but I knew I would need help.

Enter Asparagus.

Having begun to direct, when I stopped by the current theatre he worked at I found it bustling with activity. Ducking my head to avoid being seen, I told the director's assisstant at the door who I was, and she politely guided me out to the auditorium and led me down through the dark aisles of the house. Gesturing with her tiny flashlight in the darkness, I saw a gray-haired man sitting among the cushioned seats. I inched along towards him, removing my hat and gently tapping my cane on the floor.

"I apologize for not calling first, Gus, but—"

"Sit down, Hunter," Gus rumbled. "Can't you see there's an audition going on?"

Figuring that was the reason so many people had been bustling about near the front doors, I glanced up at the stage. Deserted, a vast array of ladders, paint cans, drip sheets, and all manner of construction tools littered the area. It certainly didn't look like much at the time. I sat down one seat away from Gus, watching him concentrate on the clipboard in his hands. After a moment of silence, I ventured to ask quietly: "Is this a bad time?"

"Yeah, but go ahead."

Pursing my lips, I went on hesitatingly. "I think I've got an idea for a musical. I was hoping you might be able to help me with it."

He went back to his clipboard. "What's it about?"

"Jellicle Cats."

Stopping, he looked up unblinking at the stage, but not at me, and after a moment's thought: "You know that's crazy, don't you?"

I nodded. "Perhaps."

Sighing, he shook his head slowly and went back to his clipboard, writing furiously on some kind of form. Possibly a resume.

"And what show is this?" I broke the silence again.

"Some new oratorio a snot-nosed kid from England decided to write," he growled. "I read the transcript three times and I still hate it!"

"Song or dance?"

"Song," the Jellicle Leader answered, finally looking at me. "I guess you wouldn't let me cast you, would you?" he sighed. I laughed and shook my head.

"Sorry, Gus."

"Had try-outs for the lead male yesterday. I want to give Johnson the part, but..." He tapped his pencil end on the clipboard conflictedly. "I want your voice, Hunter."

Flattered as I was, and as appealing as the offer sounded, I politely reclined. Unless I could manage under an alias, performing in a musical on Broadway was quite out of my league.

"May I still sit in?" I asked. Gus nodded, providing I kept quiet and out-of-the-way.

"If you want. These are for the lead female. She's gonna have to be a good singer."

I settled back, cane on my lap, and readied myself to watch the auditions.

Of course I had no idea how long they would take. Woman after woman stepped up onto the stage, sang, maybe danced, and acted a little. They all ranged about twenty-five years old, fitting the role type, and all were wonderful singers. But, Heaviside, there were so many! After forty or so, Gus stood and stretched.

"That's all," he groaned, scratching his sides. I tapped him with my cane.

"Gus...?"

Following my gesture of direction, he looked back at the stage. Another woman had stepped out, one last singer, and with a sigh he sat back down. I never moved.

She was pathetic to lay eyes on. Her clothes hung limp and filthy in tattered rags over her thin frame. Her hair, what once looked a soft gold was heavily tinted with the grays and whites of old age. A fur coat that must have been years old due to its filthy, faded granduer covered her bony shoulders, held tight by a single torn scarf that still had traces of sparkling glitter. Her face, though brightened with few cosmetics, was hardset and sad, permanantly etched in what struck me as a deep sorrow. She was last to step onto the stage from the dark corridor, searching the seats for Gus.

"Name?" Gus said wearily, his face pointed at the floor.

The woman replied accordingly, then said, "I'd like to sing."

I watched Gus keenly as he looked up to the woman on stage. Something flashed over his worn old face, some kind of recognition or surprise, but it was gone before I could barely register it. Those few moments, though, were all that were needed to confirm the same sort of recognition that had developed in me, but I had been unwilling to say anything. Something about the woman was disturbingly odd.

"Go on," he said at length. Both of us were stunned in silence the moment the first beautiful notes of her voice rang out.

"_Memory, turn your face to the moonlight._

Let your memory lead you:

Open up, enter in.

If you find there the meaning of what happiness is,

Then a new life will begin."

Several verses just as beautiful followed. But that wasn't why I was leaning perilously forward in my seat, eyes trained on nothing but the downright ugly female with a voice of gold. She knew _Memory_! A Jellicle song. Gus and I exchanged somewhat frantic glances. What was she? Vampire? No, she couldn't have been. It was broad daylight. Werewolf? She certainly didn't appear to have the savagery that runs common with their kind. Another Jellicle? I stared at her stooped figure long and hard, looking for that spark in manner or eyes that gave away the traces of feline blood. I searched for it, staring hard, mind completely given to her beautiful voice. I didn't know if it had been an hour or four minutes when she was done.

"_Touch me, it's so easy to leave me_

All alone with the memory

Of my days in the sun.

If you touch me, you'll understand what happiness is.

Look, a new day has begun!"

A moment of silence reigned as Gus scribbled on his clipboard. I leaned forward in my seat, eager to hear his response and to discuss her knowing the song. On stage the woman's hands wrung together nervously, just as eager. Her hopes were annuled with a single word: "Thankyou."

Turning sharply, the old woman swept off the stage without a sound. I glared at the old Jellicle.

"Well?"

"Nice," Gus nodded distractedly. To put it mildly, I was outraged.

"Nice?! Gus, she knew _Memory_! Were you listening? That means she's at least—"

"At least not human." Gus glared up at me darkly. "Of course I was listening. Her voice was beautiful. But did you look at her, Munkustrap? I've seen old world vampires that were better looking." His eyes lowered again, oblivious to the expression on my face. "If she's not human, so what? It's none of my business."

Once again that aloof independance of us werecats made itself known. I hated it. I couldn't shake it from my conscience. "Then I'll make it mine," I growled, rising to my feet and storming out of the theatre after the woman.

"Madame! Madame, please! Wait!"

Momentarily the withered old woman turned, clutching her filthy overcoat of fur around her shoulders. She cringed with suspicion and fear as the bigger, younger form of my human self approached her. In the crowd that filled the sidewalks around the theatre, her raggedness stood out plainly.

"I'm afraid I didn't catch your name," I said, standing a respectful distance from her. She eyed me coldly. She gave a curt answer of her name again, a name I'd never heard before today, that biting coldness evident in her voice. I swept back a few strands of hair that had fallen into my eyes, and a moment passed as I readied myself.

"Your voice," I said, unable to restrain a smile. "Sink me, it's beautiful! And that song you sang, if you please: where might you have heard it?"

She laughed, cold and sarcastic. "That song was written ages ago. Are you telling me you've never heard it before?"

Stunned, I shook my head. "No, milady."

Her tattered face darkened. "I'm not your lady," she hissed. She glanced me from head-to-toe, sniffing in contempt. "What sort of Jellicle doesn't know _Memory_?"

My mouth fell open. So she could tell what I was. But her...? I nodded slowly, Hunter Blakeney vanishing. "Pardon, ma'am, but yes: I do know it." I could feel myself wither in the stare of the old woman. For such a haggard appearance, her eyes were deep and hard. I dared to think mystical. "Who wrote it?" was the only think I could think of to ask. I was too concentrated on watching her, trying to find any hint of supernatural signs. But her appearance was too dark, to concealing. My eyes found her face, and hers found mine. In that fraction of a second I saw it. I _knew_ this woman from somewhere. I knew her by name. I knew her face. I knew her touch. But who was she?

"A Jellicle queen who was once a mate to a wealthy New Yorker," she said curtly, pulling her coat tighter around her as she spun away. "She's dead now. I've answered enough of your questions."

I was stunned. What was sad and quiet in the theatre was now proud and domineering, gazing down upon an aristocrat in her mendicant glory. But her pride came solely from her, and not the Manhattan humans who swept by us without a thought, gazing questioningly at the well-to-do Hunter Blakeney speaking directly to this beggar woman without so much as an escort. I saw her lift her head and throw back her shoulders as she walked away, that pride and knowledge of her superiority making her stand out as much as her rags. Quickly I paced after her, gently taking hold of her arm to face her again.

She jerked away. "Keep your hands off me!"

"Please," I said quietly. "Tell me, what are you? I can't help but feel as though I know you from somewhere."

"Look," she said, growling. "I don't know who you are, and right now if you don't quit harassing me—" She and I both halted as Gus came jogging after us, out of breath.

"Hunter," he wheezed. "Hunter...we have a little...problem..." He paused, catching his breath, and gazed quizzically at the woman before us. But her gaze wasn't on him. It was on me.

"Hunter..." she said quietly. "Hunter Blakeney?"

I nodded hesitantly. In that moment her entire demeanor changed. Drawing herself close, she held the frayed edge of her coat together over her chest, breathing shallow. Her defiance and pride were suddenly gone as she gazed up at me with the sparkling blue eyes of a frightened child. "Oh, dear Heaviside..." I reached out to take her shoulder and ask what the matter was, but in that movement she spun away, her frail figure hurrying along with the sweep of the New York crowd. "I have to go..." She hailed a taxi, glanced at me once again as it pulled up, then as mysterious as she'd came slipped in and was driven away. I gazed after her, mind unsure which path of thought to take, and would have likely gone into one of the deep lapses of contemplation if Gus hadn't shaken my shoulder.

"Hunter," he said, breath returned to normal. "I just got a call from Skimble."

"What is it?" I asked distractedly.

"We need to gather at the Sanctuary," his baritone voice rumbled in the background. I still thought of that woman, trying to place her somewhere in my past. His next phrase, however, caught my complete attention. "Werewolves..."


	8. Munkustrap: WereCats 8

****

Munkustrap – Part Eight

There must have been a Stephen King marathon on the USA channel over the next week, for in three days I had watched two versions of _The Shining_, _Pet Sematary_, its sequel, _It_, and _Cujo_. As much as I had admired Mr. King's stories when I was younger, how much they had terrified me, now they were none other than elaborate, well-thought fantasies created by a man that were nothing compared to the horrors I had witnessed thus far. But they had a reality about them that no other writer could manage that I'd read. My personal favorite, _The Stand_, is quite remarkable.

But these horrific tales had little effect on me anymore. I lay stretched out on a loveseat (quite ironic) in the lounge, staring at the television set across the room, listening to the mock innocent voice of little Gage. "I brought you sumfing, Mommy."

I couldn't help it as I heard the woman actress scream: I laughed. A dead child brought back to life and killing his mother...I could barely remember the time when that laugh of little Gage had scared me. Did that mean I was braver now? I didn't think so. More mature, perhaps.

But my actions at the warehouse that night would probably prove differently.

Midnight. Not a sound from the pavement.

Several pairs of feline eyes glowed in the darkness as we Jellicles crouched around the butcher warehouse. It was closed for the night, and any guards that may have been patrolling no longer did so due to the werewolves we knew were inside. Even from where I stood in an alley flanked by Bombalurina and Tugger I could smell their dog-like wild scents, thick with filth, and the overall taint of blood that polluted the fenced-in grounds.

"Skimble said they attacked right after sunset," Gus had told me on the way. "Took control of the place. A lot of them."

"What could they possibly want in a slaughter house?" I wondered aloud.

"Food supply," he laughed. "You think a Jellicle's metabolism is high? Try being a werewolf, Munkustrap. Robbing a slaughter house is much easier than taking out some bar full of humans."

Odd, of course. But he did have a point.

And now we stood outside the enormous slaughter house, a posse of healthy werecats, stalking our enemy under the light of a crescent moon. Of the cats accompanying Gus and myself, there was Bombalurina, Tugger, Skimble, Alonzo, Cassandra, and young Mistoffelees. Another Hunt in which a kitten was brought along for the first time. Just as I had done.

Mistoffelees's face was extremely animated, its brilliant white fur shining in the darkness. The slightest shift in his brows, his mouth, his eyes, altered the expression of all his features, creating a mask of countless emotions. I tried not to think of Bustopher as I looked at him, but with our task in sight I had little time to. Thank Heaviside. I did, however, make a point in my mind to watch over him when the time came. We crouched in wait, not word uttered between us until Alonzo arrived from his custom of scouting the area.

"Fence isn't electric," he said. "We climb over it an' there's plenny o' windows for us t' get into."

"Did you spot any of the dogs?" Gus whispered. Alonzo shook his head warily.

"None."

Hearing this I gazed at the dark, lifeless building. _How many_? I wondered. _How many wolves were in there_? I could pick up no traces of any dog scents, not a glimmer of light or movement from within the barred glass windows, not a sound from within. My mind rang with the word "trap" long before I voiced it, and even then my eyes never left the building.

"Perhaps," Gus said beside me. "Which means we have to go in quiet and stay alert."

"We should split up," I whispered, "in case it is a tra—"

"C'mon, scaredy cats," Tugger interrupted by leaping boldly on all fours in front of us, his tail lashing in excitement and his voice a little too loud to be comfortable. "Let's do this!" He began to strut towards the tall fence. Gus said something, but I had already dashed forward and thrown my shoulder against Tugger's, glaring at his face in countenance to his surprise.

"Listen, you ratlover," I hissed, just loud enough for the two of us to hear distinctly. "You're smarter than to barge into a building filled to the brim with a werewolf pack! It's like ringing the dinner bell!" For a moment he said nothing, but our stare was long and mutual.

"A little paranoid t'night, aren't ya, Stripes?" he purred at length, fluffing up the furry tassels of his mane. Blowing air hotly through my muzzle in a contemptuous snort I drew back from him, lowering my rigid tail.

"It doesn't hurt to be cautious," was all I said.

"Hey," Gus snapped from back within the alley, stepping cautiously out so that the moonlight filtered over his thin, dusty coat. "That's enough, both of you. We're going in as a group and that's it." Glancing back at the others, a moment passed as he thought things over. We gave him all a respectful silence, feeling the weight of the quiet on our shoulders. Beyond him in the alley I saw Mistoffelees's white face. Wide. Curious. Afraid.

But more than that I saw Gus—_really_ saw him—more than I had since the day we'd met. Fur thin and ratty, on most spots it was so thin I could see the pale skin beneath it. Even his frame was thin, his paws seeming barely able to support his body weight. And his face, as I saw its profile, in that moment looked more ancient than I ever remembered. Whisker drooping, eyes dull and lifeless, my feline vision picked up the twitches of his facial muscles working as he thought. They were working hard.

Too hard.

"Two by two," he said finally. "We'll go in two by two. I'll go first with—"

"No," I said suddenly, cutting him off. "I'll go first." Reaching across, I grabbed Tugger's shoulder. "And so will you."

For a moment no one argued, not even Tugger. I wouldn't have changed my mind if they had. I was worried about Gus, about his condition. Gus was old. Sixty perhaps, not the youthful thirty or so Admetus had been at his final battle with the wolves. I didn't want him going in there first. Even if there was a trap, if there was the slightest change of escape, Tugger and I certainly had a better chance than him. Mentally I gazed over the others with us, eliminating them all for some reason or another. Gus, Skimble, and Alonzo were all older toms. Cassandra and Bombalurina were females. Nature's law dictated females were not nearly as replaceable as males, no matter how silly the notion seemed. Mistoffelees, plain and simple: young, inexperienced. If anyone was going in first, I wanted it to be me.

After an eternity Gus nodded, not meeting my eyes, and slinking low to the ground I started for the building. Every sense was trained on full alert, my mind set entirely on only one purpose.

I could feel Tugger's shoulder at my tail as I went.

My excitement only mounted as we slipped into the building, rather than dimming as we slipped over the fence, across the open yard, and through a window whose bars were easily yanked away with nothing happening. Nothing changed as I expected to. No ear-splitting battle cry cut the air, followed immediately by a wave of werewolves charging headlong to meet us. But nothing happened, and it was beginning to wear on my nerves.

Inside the building we landed in the basement, I guessed, judging my the cloth-draped machinery and stacked crates. Pitch dark, even our cat eyes couldn't pick up much beyond the moonlight that filtered through the few other windows. The scent of frozen meat came heavily from both the left and ahead: only logical for a slaughter house. Not a whiff of any werewolves.

"Stay here for the others," I whispered, barely audible even to myself. "I'll go look around."

Tugger said nothing as I left. Not even the brush of my paws over the slick cement floor could be heard...perhaps some un-named Gift. The basement area was sectioned off by padlock doors and heavy cage gates which I couldn't see through, leaving it about an area of sixty square feet. I circled it once, taking mental notes of a heavy metal door—the only exit—which already sat open a few inches. _Definitely a trap_, I concluded, and passed it by.

The others had arrived by the time I found Tugger again. I told them what I saw, my certainty the wolves were lying in wait for us.

"Don't see why we can't jus' purr some demolitionist into lettin' us use a few sticks o' dynamite for this place," Tugger scoffed, receiving a sharp nip from Skimble.

"Too loud and too obvious," he whispered harshly. "It would draw too much attention."

"We do this the traditional way or not at all," Gus finalized. "And I'm not going back now. But if any of you want to leave, go back to your families, then do so now. No one'll think any less of you."

Silence. No one moved.

"Very well then," Gus nodded, and led us back towards the doorway to the rest of the building. I followed close behind him, cursing tradition with every word I knew.

Nothing. Empty. Dark. Not a scent of wolf fur anywhere as we climbed up to the main floor of the building, down a long hallway to a wide open room full of hanging meat and packaging machines. The smell of it was disgusting, and made me think twice about ever eating store-bought beef again.

"This is gettin' ridiculous," Tugger scoffed. For once I felt I could side with him. The building was relatively small, only two floors and the basement. How could an entire pack of wolves be in here without leaving their scent? As though in answer, Bombalurina voiced her thoughts.

"They came in from the roof...and they're on the second floor..."

Passing a glance between us, eight werecats made their way on to the next floor.

And she was right.

Werewolves...no less than twenty of them! The second floor was wide and open, filled with crates and boxes that had been shoved back into the walls to create room in the center. In single file we shifted down to our cat forms and slunk in under the cover of the boxes. I was close behind Gus, eyes trained warily on the wolves, thinking how much this scene seemed familiar.

Except there was no guard.

More remarkable were the wolves. Over a score of them gathered, hunched over and sitting together, draped in every kind of gun or knife you could imagine. But what were they doing here? Waiting for something? One thing was certain, though...this was not a trap after all.

It took everything I had to keep from laughing. How careless _were_ these dogs? They are spotted as they enter the building, they don't bother to search and secure the place, and here they all gather and talk in normal voices as though nothing was out-of-the-ordinary. Stupidity at its greatest...

"What was that?" suddenly a male voice barked, bringing to a halt the mindless chit-chat. Silence fell over the room, and I watched the dogs from the shadows, waiting for that symbolic drop of Gus's tail.

Werewolves couldn't see in darkness as good as Jellicles can. They can certainly see better than humans, but compared to us werecats they're blind. They stood rigid now, eyes searching the dark corners of the building and crates for any signs of whatever-it-was they had heard.

"I told you we shoulda moved the crates," another low voice growled.

"Shuddup!"

I could hardly wait to pounce. Two stupid dogs, _very_ stupid, entirely at the mercy of our claws.

Gus's tail dropped.

We shifted to werecat.

"_Cats rule and dogs drool_! _Woooooooha_!"

We were among the dogs like a hurricane. Tugger sped ahead of us, his thick muscles flexed fully as he lashed every which way with claws and fangs, bellowing feline roars. The dogs were taken completely by surprise, and four were dead before they even got to their feet. Most of them yelped with fright and surprise at the appearance of us cats, and scattered to escape. _Puppies_! my mind rang. _They're just puppies_! Tugger stood tall and proud, laughing harshly, as the rest of us followed suit.

The werewolves were bold, however. Taken by surprise, they needed only a few moments for their bloodlusting rage to well up and make even the young ones (puppies) into dangerous killers. I almost hesitated when I spotted..._her_.

The leader: the black female. I remembered her scent. Behind her, where a thick woolly tail should have been, only a stub remained. It was the she-wolf that had killed Admetus. Whirling, her gleaming white fangs bared in a battle-crazed howl and the wolves dashed forward.

"Fight, cats!" the presumptuous Tugger yeowled, and instead of retreating into the surrounding group of the rest of us Jellicles he plunged forward to meet them. For a split second it seemed certain a mottled gray-furred male was going to impale him on a long dagger he drew, but at the last possible second Tugger dove to the side and slashed the dog across the face. Bombalurina was at his side, her black clawed hind paws tearing into the two chests of a couple and cracking their heads together in the same movement. Side by side the two fought like mad, claws whirling like twin mills and fangs flashing like daggers.

Quick on Tugger's heels, I lunged into the fray, the reddish tinge of _rach'arl_ hazing my vision. A set of claws raked my shoulder, and in return I whirled in the middle of my leap to deliver the wolf a hard kick in the stomach. A brown arm crossed my vision, and I bit it with all my might, swiping away a lead pipe about to crash down on the back of Gus's head.

By now we were all heavily involved in the fight. Skimble dashed straight through the brawl into its heart, slashing and kicking at anything that wasn't Jellicle. He caught a stout wooden club in his silver claws and swung it around over the head of its wielder. The stout piece of wood snapped in two, and Skimble continued his assassin maneuvers, whacking with both blunt ends. Mistoffelees's small form had worked itself to the far end of the fray. Several wolves rounded on him, but it was like trying to hold smoke on a windy day. He was there a moment, clawing a dog's face the shreds, only to vanish the next moment and appear somewhere else, paws ablaze with electric sparks. I was busy pummeling a brown male in the face, so I didn't see Alonzo alone, surrounding by wolves on all sides and fighting them all like mad. I didn't see the burly white grab him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides, while two others came at him with their fangs bared and daggers held high. He kicked out at them furiously, but they drove their weapons hilt-deep into him twice before Cassandra came to his rescue. Alonzo winced and ignored his wounds, and he and Cassandra continued their fight back to back.

Gus was the Jellicle Leader, and as was tradition it was he who took on the leader of our enemies.

But I had decided by now I didn't like tradition much.

Holding the throat of a dead female tight in my jaws I looked up, and saw him facing the black she-wolf. The dog leaped forward. Gus grabbed her wrists instinctively and the two fell to the ground, brawling like the savage beasts we all were. He bit down hard into the side of her neck and raked her stomach with his claws. The she-wolf struggled to break hold, and I dropped my prey as I saw her grab his flailing back legs and sink one calf into her crushing jaws. The cat rocked back with an ear-splitting screech and released his grip. So did she. Raising one enormous paw of sickle claws, she swept down for a killing blow. All I could think of was Admetus all over again.

No! _No_! I wasn't going to let another leader die because I was too scared to do anything! Letting loose all my pent-up rage at the she-wolf, her murdering ways and brutal fighting style, I took one beginning leap on all fours and dove at her with blurring speed. My jaws closed around her wrist, biting through flesh and hot blood until I felt bone between my fangs, and even then that began to shatter.

The wolf reeled back onto her hind legs, howling to the ceiling, at the same time my momentum carried my body around, claws raking her face until her knife sliced downward, barely scathing my shoulder. I let go and twisted my body in mid-air, landing on all fours a few feet away.

I saw it then: we were outnumbered, and it was showing.

The werewolves we were facing may have been young and stupid, but they were strong. Alonzo's sides ran thick with red, and Tugger's flank was now a ripped and torn mess. It was plain to see Cassandra was slowing, and Skimble growing tired. Only Mistoffelees and Bombalurina seemed unscathed by the battle. I saw Alonzo and Skimble finally fall, the wolves pounding onto them mercilessly...as though I expected any. Two others followed, and Bombalurina was the last face I saw before I knew we were defeated. A round of shots fired over the heads of the wolves, silenced all snarls and howls.

At a last second's decision, I rolled to the side, ducking low behind a crate. Tail held low and stiff, my claws were flexed, eyes darting first at the shadows on the wall, then to the sharp noises from beyond the crate.

If I was superstitious, I would have known history was repeating itself.

"Where is he?" the she-wolf was snapping. "Where's the tabby! I want that cat!"

"Forget 'em, Inferno," a rougher male voice snapped. "We've got the rest. That's enough."

"Never underestimate these Jellicles, Dakota!" the she-wolf snapped. Barely moving, I inched forward until from the side of my vision I could see part of the area. The she-wolf, Inferno: fur of jet black, held yet another large gun pointed at the ceiling. She faced another jet-black wolf, Dakota: larger, with an equal-sized gun, and a male. Both their coats shone with the same oily black sheen.

"Find that tiger!" the female snapped at a few younger werewolves beside her, and hastily they obeyed. Their noses must have been as useless as their brains, for they headed off in the precise direction I wasn't. Stupid dogs... I couldn't help but be flattered, though, considering the she-wolf had called me a tiger. But now wasn't a time to be flattered.

The Jellicles were on their knees, arms behind their heads in an almost military fashion, each of them with an armed werewolf standing behind them. I saw their faces...none of them showed any hints of fear. For the wolves there was nothing but contempt and hate. I shared that loathing for these dogs, that hatred. Clenching my claws into the floor, I resisted every urge I had to run out there. Perhaps it was instinct...I don't know...

"Which of you is the leader?" the male snapped.

_Don't say anything, Gus_. _Don't say anything_...

"I am," Gus growled.

_D**n_!

A scuffling sound, and the she-wolf hauled Gus up roughly with a snarl from them both. It made me wonder, though, which of her two burdens she held with her crushed wrist: the gun or Gus.

"You cats have been a nuisance since I came here!" she snarled. "I just wanna let you know I'm gonna enjoy killin' the lot of you."

I heard the click of a gun...Gus's rapid breathing of pain as his crushed leg was useless now...the panting of the wolves as they watched...the swishing of the Jellicles' tails...I saw Admetus's face...

_She's going to kill him_! _She's going to kill him_! _She's going to kill him_!!!

"So that's it, eh? Pickin' on old toms when ya gotta fully loaded gun in your paws. Real bravery there, s**t-eater."

I didn't know what Tugger was up to, but for the moment my heart slowed in its panicked race long enough to see the meat hook. Curved in an arch bigger than my head, the moonlight gleamed off of its metal side evilly, down to its scorpion-like tip. I could only imagine the damage such a wicked weapon could do. It lay entirely discarded upon a small crate to my left. Again, if I was superstitious, I would have been certain someone—or some_thing_—was at play here, and it was favoring my side.

The black she-wolf growled deeply as she set her sights on Tugger, her voice hissing low in absolute hatred. "I remember you," she spat.

"Yeah," Tugger laughed, as though at an innocent joke. "How ya been doin'? Huh, must be hard goin' around with all yer big guns and big dogs with no tail t' show off, eh, Stubby?"

A grunt as Gus was thrown back to the ground, and the she-wolf moved from my line of vision. I heard Tugger's gulp as he was hauled up to his feet, probably by his throat. The heavy breathing of the wolf was more than prominent. "That's right, Spot. I've still gotta score to settle with you."

A contemptuous sniff. "I don't see how yer gonna settle anything with me outnumbered like this, an' you holdin' that bazooka there." He laughed again. "Tell you what: we'll stick to that imitation idea you got of honor an' have a one-on-one fight. You an' me. No weapons. C'mon, Stubby, be a man." He laughed yet again, louder this time. "Oh, I forgot. Nevermind."

The female werewolf snarled, raising her gun to fire a shot into the ceiling, silencing his laugh before she tossed the gun to the floor in a clatter of metal and barked out: "Yer laughin' days are over, cat. On yer knees!"

One of the males grabbed Tugger's thick mane and yanked it back, exposing his yellow throat, while another kicked his spotted feet from under him. Inferno advanced, claws raised, fangs bared.

"Now yer gonna pay fer stealin' my tail!"

A second's hesitance and he would have been dogfood.

Snatching up the cold steel of the meat hook in my hand, I took only a second to gather myself and send my body hurtling out like a living battering ram, the metal hook raised high. Perhaps the _rach'arl_ had taken hold, making me run at speeds I could never normally achieve, or perhaps...I don't know. But what I do know was that I had dashed that distance from the crates to the black female and slammed that meat hook into the back of her skull before any of them began to move.

The she-wolf reeled back with a hideous howl, throwing her hands back to the back of her head, her face contorting in agony as she buckled to her knees. Simultaneously everything came once again to life. The Jellicles scrambled to their feet, the wolves howling their dismay as they attacked and were attacked.

Behind me I felt the swish of air and the deep growl as the black male—Dakota—lifted his gun for my back. Whirling, I snarled, and still holding the meat hook I used the dead she-wolf's body weight to fling into him. It was a stronger throw than I'd thought, and bowled the male werewolf over to the ground.

Tugger was on him like stench. Claws flexed fully into the wolf's shoulders, his jaws closed around his throat, and rather than biting in the black and spotted tom ripped back, a long stream of red and entrails spilling over the wolf's chest. He died with a sick gurgle.

Seeing both their leaders slain, the rest of the wolves visibly lost their nerve and hesitated any further attack. There was no need to. We were hurting, and probably couldn't work up the strength to fight again with the same vigorous energy that would be needed to send the dogs yelping back with their tails tucked. Well, we couldn't, but Bombalurina could.

Snarling and bristling she threw herself at the young dogs, snapping and yelling. "Get outta here, you bunch of flea-bitten wussies! When you poodles got the brains to come back and fight us you just drop a line, ya hear? _ROWR_!!"

The wolves were only too happy to tuck their tails and run. I chuckled to myself as I heard them run, leaning down to help Tugger to his feet. He growled a curse as he stood, his flank useless for now, and grudgingly I helped support him as we filed our way out. The scent of that processed meat was getting to me, and nobody wanted to be here at dawn when the humans arrived and saw half-naked people laying strewn about in a pool of red liquid, throats torn and limbs severed.

We passed by Inferno, in human form, as dead as the rest of them. Face down, I could only identify her by the large metal meat hook that was embedded deep into her mane of hair, jet black even as a human.

"Thanks," Tugger said quietly after spitting on her. I shook my head, indicating there was no need for gratitude.

"Now we're even," was all I said.

We gathered back at Jenny's Sanctuary to recoup from the battle just as the sun was rising, a poor thing to show for a triumphant brawl. Jenny and her children—for some odd reason Pouncival wasn't there—tended our wounds, dressing them as we related to her the events of the fight, and in return received stern lectures about being so careless.

"_Us_ careless?" Tugger growled. "_Tchah_! It was those dogs who had their tails up their—" He halted, glancing at the kittens. "Up their backsides." Rubbing his sore throat, the wild-haired skinny man had a glow about him despite his bandages. By just glancing at his face I could almost see he was thinking of that wolf tail he still had back home. Apparently Inferno had been heavy on his mind.

Alonzo was the worst off of us all. After the battle had finished he just collapsed, holding his sides in agony, and between Skimble and Mistoffelees was carried back here. He lay now on the brink of consciousness, settled over in the furthest bed after being the first treated, breathing heavy and quiet.

"He will have to remain here for a few days," Jenny had said, "and if he is strong enough until then I'll take him to the hospital."

"Why wait?" Mistoffelees had asked, holding a white patch to the back of his head and glancing in concern at the older tom.

"Delirious or panicked Jellicles can shift unintentionally," she said softly, stroking her son's forehead, "or if he starts rambling and there is an enemy nearby..."

Cassandra, badly scathed but nothing serious, refused any and all treatment she was offered. Retreating to the welcome shadows of a back corner, she sat beside Alonzo's cot and proceeded to treat herself. Jenny let her go, as though she knew Cassandra knew enough about medicine to keep herself in good condition. Cassandra, yes, but the rest of us couldn't escape her care. It took Tugger a full fifteen minutes of complaining before he finally gave in to Jennyanydots's insistence.

Skimble and I were fairly alright. He had the all-around set of claw marks and bite wounds, and I had my slashed shoulder and plenty of aches I knew would show up tomorrow. We were last to be treated.

Bombalurina alone among us was virtually untouched. Leaning easily against a column support, her human face gazed at the goings-on in calm contemplation. Holding my throbbing shoulder after a clean white bandage had been applied, I quietly moved across the room and sat beside her, heaving a sigh.

"Long night," I said quietly.

"Yeah," she mumbled back, giving me a downward glance. "You gonna be okay?"

"Of course." In return I looked up at her, smiling a little."Not as well off as you, I'm sure. Where did you learn to fight like that?"

She shrugged casually, tossing back a strand of red hair. "Old buddy taught me." And drawing back into herself she would say nothing more. I decided not to pursue the matter, though I wondered who she was referring to. Gus's squall caught my attention.

"You're not walking out of here, Asparagus!" Jenny said sharply. "Not in your condition!"

"Blast it, woman!" he snarled back, seemingly savage even as a human. "I don't need you watching over me like some mother hen!"

"Mother hen!" she scolded, and quickly shifting to her werecat form she cuffed him against the head with one paw. "Listen, you prehistoric muck-jumping gecko...!"

I laughed at that, but then Jenny launched into a heavy lecture with the old tom. A lecture I couldn't understand entirely because it was in German. But it didn't matter much. She gave him a due thrashing. And in her werecat form Jennyanydots was no thing you wanted to mess with.

She was enormous! As a general rule female Jellicles are smaller and slimmer than males, but every rule has an exception. Jenny was it. Her size could have well equaled Alonzo's or mine, with burly limbs and a stout frame that seemed to carry some aspect of her plumpness as a human. Her fur was long, curly, and thick, a fine sandy-yellow with chocolate-brown stripes and spots that speckled her coat in a beautiful pattern. There was a hint of gray along her furry extensions, probably from old age, and her tail was long and fluffy. I imagine that when she was younger she was probably quite beautiful. Yet, I wondered: how could both Jennyanydots and Bustopher be so large and their two sons so far—Mistoffelees and Pouncival—were so thin, small-framed, and short? It doesn't matter much, I suppose.

Gus quieted down when Jenny finally finished, and shifting back to her human form she brushed her apron as though embarrassed by such a show of aggression.

"One thing's for sure," she continued slowly. "You're lucky that leg is going to heal at all. You may still have a limp, Gus.

Gus glanced down at the ground, a dark shadow clouding his features. Something in what she said must have made him think, though I had seen it long before...

Gus was old.

And something about that thought made me think. As I walked back home I thought back on my own youth. It seemed so long ago, that time before my Age of Change, that last day before I turned seventeen.

It's so strange. That last day I thought I was human....I had never expected anything like that to ever happen to me. What had I been thinking those last few moments before I read that letter? Before I found out what I really was...it's the things like these that you take for granted and never miss until they're gone. The feeling of being human, being normal, even though by the standards of what you really are you fit in perfectly. I had never considered myself extraordinary in any way before I was sixteen. I was still a werecat before seventeen, with all the qualities and abilities of one except the knowledge of how to use them. I still healed three times faster than humans. I still had the heightened senses and endurance of a cat. I had all those things since the day I was born, and yet I had never viewed myself as being "different" from other people. But then, I had never really been around people my own age when I was a youngster. Between private tutoring, my father, and the boring parties of my social class I was more around adults than other kids. Perhaps I had just assumed other children were like me, equally strong and dexterous with the same vision at night, the same hearing. I'd never bothered asking anyone else how well they could see or hear...I never had a reason to...

Odd, what ignorance can do to a person.

I had another one of my strange dreams that night. I was standing by a river, but the river was still, filled to the brim with every kind of poison I knew and more. The stench rose from it vile and wretched, stinging the back of my throat like spice. In the pale lamp of a flickering streetlight I stood, gazing out at the river, dimly aware of the shadows and screeches all around me. Swarming at the edge of the shadows, afraid to come into the light, were millions of rats and insects, and some creatures I've yet to see on the planet Earth. They pressed forward, snarling and squabbling to reach me, only the flickering light protecting me from their teeth.

It's strange that I remember these dreams with such vividness. Perhaps another element of the feline blood...but the dream was written off as another random vision of subconscious conception and forgotten. I didn't have time to dwell on dreams.

Two weeks later Gus called us again together. At Jenny's Sanctuary we gathered: myself, Bombalurina, Tugger, the Twins, Skimble, Plato, Mistoffelees, and Jenny. Cassandra didn't appear, but it was habit for her to often be off by herself. No one questioned her. Gus was talking as we sat around him, all humans since the sun had risen already, and the only patrons occupying the shelter so far were still asleep or hungover.

"We're a small tribe," Gus said, standing, leaning against a support column. No weight whatsoever was put on the leg Inferno had gotten her jaws around. Under the streamline of his pant leg I could see the bulk of the bandages still there. "But considering our kind's numbers, we're a large group."

I counted...twelve of us, thirteen if you counted that old female at the theatre. I didn't really, so there were a dozen of us. A moment passed in which I studied Gus's face. Sagged and wrinkled with age, his brow seemed even more furrowed now than it ever had been. Creased in thought and stress, his thinning human hair was almost entirely white. He didn't look like an actor.

I thought of Bustopher.

"I'm renouncing my leadership," he said finally. "I'm getting too old for this nonsense."

Needless to say, the news was expected, yet still shocking. A cold silence fell over us, eyes fixed on the old tom, jaws slack and silent. We didn't have to ask why or try to change his mind. Instead, Coricopat and Tantomile posed:

"Then who will you appoint..."

"...as your successor?"

Shaking his head with a heavy sigh, Gus let his eyes fall to the ground. "Whoever wants it."

"Wants?" Skimble looked up, that light of dissent in his eyes. Gus glanced at him. "Jellicle Leadership isn't a thing y'give away like fruitcake at Christmas!" he growled. "Cats gotta earn it."

"I didn't," Gus countered. "I was given the Leadership because I was the best choice at the time, as we all decided." He shook his head. "I never even wanted it."

"All" of us probably excluded kittens, as I remembered nothing about voting Gus into "office." But the idea was interesting. If Skimble hadn't been such a pessimist I thought he would have made a wonderful Leader, experienced in his mid-forties, yet still possessing the remaining fires of youth that lingered in Jellicles for years after they would have died in humans. Alonzo, perhaps. A great fighter, but not the best of strategists. I wondered: who, then?

"So who's up?" Gus voiced my own thoughts. "I know we're not all here, but it's a small tribe. Any ideas?"

I think we all had forgotten about Plato until he spoke. "How about Munkustrap?"

Face going blank in genuine surprise, I looked at him. What was he saying? Me? Jellicle Leader? The moment the idea was in my head, I don't think it could have ever gotten out. Honest to Heaviside, I had never considered the idea. How old was I? Thirty-two. After recovering from my initial shock the only thing I could think of to saw was a none-too-intelligent: "What?"

"Why not?" Plato stood to his feet, scratching the back of his neck. He approached me, arms crossed, and stopped in the range of our little group. He stared at me, and I stared back, both scrutinizing and curious about the other.

Trust Tugger to scoff.

"Aw, c'mon," he rocked back with a laugh. "Stripes? Fatcat? Mr. Park Avenue?" He literally fell out of his seat, rolling on the ground in laughter. I glared at him, downright insulted.

"You don't think I could do it?"

He pushed himself up, wiping his eyes, and got control of his hollering long enough to chuckle, his annoying eyes shining in merriment. "Not...hahaha! Not really...haha!"

Rising to my feet, I stared down at him, fists clenched. "And why not?!"

"Don't even," Gus halted the impending fight, rising to stand between us. "This is about who should be the next leader, not who shouldn't." Glaring back at each of us, we backed down like kittens, and he looked back to Plato. "Justify your reason, Plato."

The young man shifted his weight, turning back to Gus and walking slowly to where he'd been sitting before. "Think about it...as a human he's got the resources to help any and all of us...from what you've told me about those dog attacks he's got the determination and dedication even in tough situations. He's old enough to know what's what, but young enough to still be considered in his prime." He turned back, facing us with another large shrug. "Why not?"

It's wasn't Plato's words. There was no inspirational spirit-lifting speech that convinced their minds I would be a good Jellicle Leader. Not like any movie or book I'd heard of where one character's passion mounted and peaked where the words flowed form their mouth with such assurance and righteousness no one dared to argue with them. Well this wasn't the movies. This was real life. And to be honest, I wasn't sure I wanted the position. But on the other paw there was no limit on how long someone _had_ to be a Jellicle Leader...if I made it, and didn't like it, I could always renounce myself just as Gus was doing now...right?

"Alright," Gus nodded, smiling in self-approval as he turned to me. "Hunter, are you up to it?"

Not hesitating, not even thinking about the possibility of what I was about to agree to, I flourished my hand in the air in pure Blakeney style. "Sink me, why shouldn't I be? And as a sign of good faith," I darted my eyes to Tugger, "I'll let Pretty Boy do the honors of choosing my challenge."

I knew the tradition. To become leader, a Jellicle is assigned a task—usually the most difficult thing the rest can think of—that they must complete. No sooner had I spoken the words, then Tugger flashed a grin of knowing that remained constant and irritating until Gus purred his approval. A snap of his claws, and Mistoffelees hopped to join him. Together they whispered conspiratorially for a few moments, their faces turned from us. I glanced at Plato, who smiled and nodded at me, then to Bombalurina, who winked. Then Mistoffelees returned to speak the one line that would alter the rest of my life forever...

"Your mission, should you chose to accept it," Mistoffelees laughed. "Is to retrieve something from _inside_ Macavity's lair."

If there was one thing Bustopher pressed upon me when I was still a young werecat, it was the knowledge of the Jellicle that ruled the territory on the western tip of Manhattan Island.

Macavity.

I had never seen the Hidden Paw, the Mystery Cat, the Napoleon of Crime with my own eyes, and due to the stories I've been told I don't think I would want to. None of the other Jellicles, even Bustopher, could give an accurate description of what Macavity looked like. But the stories and theories about him, where he came from, what he really was were endless. I don't think anyone really knew. Some told me he came from Europe, the spawn of a nun and a convict. Others said he is the offspring of a Jellicle out west and a mountain lion. Still other, more radical tales said that he sprang forward fully grown from the dark end of Heaviside. As to what Macavity was...no one was certain. A normal Jellicle. Some creature yet to be discovered. I had my doubts that he even existed at all, as I had yet to see proof.

But the one thing that ran true with all the stories was that Macavity was evil. Pure and simple. They told me he had killed more werewolves and vampires than our entire tribe could do in a lifetime. Supposedly he had ran attacks on humans, destroying entire apartment houses and all their occupants at once. I even heard it said that he ran attacks on the other Jellicles of Manhattan. I had known I was a Jellicle for twelve years now, and I had yet to see anything of this supposed incarnate of evil.

And I was in for a rude awakening.

Immediately Gus was on his feet. "You can't do that! It's suicide!"

Mistoffelees just shrugged. "If you're going to be a Jellicle Leader, you have to prove yourself."

"But Macavity—!"

"Hey," Tugger raised a hand, not necessary other than to draw attention. "If Stripes ain't up to it, I can. Rich fatcat probley couldn't even fit int' his place."

"You'll have yer chance," Skimble snapped, "if Munkustrap steps down or he fails..."

"There's a difference between a challenge and suicide," Gus growled again, glaring at the two who had assigned the mission. "Something else! Now!"

"Hey!" Tugger snapped. "You ain't the leader anymore, bucko. Either he takes it or someone else is up." Flashing a rude gesture to Gus, attention turned back to me.

"Well, Stripes? Whuddya say? Tomorrow night...?"

There was no hesitance from me.

"Tomorrow night," I agreed resolutely.

Almost the exact moment the words died on the air Bombalurina pushed herself to her feet, sweeping out of the building through the side entrance without saying a word. Her face was hidden, her footsteps stiff and rapid. I followed her shape until the door closed slowly behind her.

"What's wrong with her?" I asked, gazing after where Bombalurina had gone.

"She..." Gus said hesitantly, "...had a few bad run-ins with Macavity."

"You mean she's seen him?"

Gus nodded sagely. "She doesn't like to talk about it."

As much I respected Bombalurina as a friend, I wanted to know what I was up against. The notion of my death had been a constant factor since that first battle with the werewolves, and the very thought of me entering the lair of the many things I imagined Macavity to be brought a strange foreshadow of doom across my consciousness. So I followed her.

Bombalurina's slim human form was walking cross-armed through the alley lining the Sanctuary building, face to the ground in the general direction of her home. Jogging after her I called her human name (she eventually did tell me) and she stopped, turning to me with a hateful glare.

"You shouldn't do this," she hissed, continuing her walk as I caught up and remained steady at her side. "You don't have to prove anything. Make 'em pick some other challenge."

"Don't be worried," I said quietly. "It's a slip in and slip out. Even if Macavity's at his lair, he won't know I'm there."

"He'll know," she whispered. In her voice there was a quiver, a distinct taint of fear. I saw her hands move to hold her arms tighter to her, and in response I put my arm around her shoulders. There was no responding movement. She just kept walking. "He knows everything..."

"And you would know all about that, wouldn't you?"

She ducked her head, showing me a fear inside her I'd never seen before. "Please, Hunter, don't ask...I knew him, that's all..."

It was fear that was pure. Not built upon rumors or just a mere instinct. She had _known_ this Mystery Cat, experienced him first hand. I wanted to know their relationship, what he had done to her, what and who he really was. That was why I had come after her, wasn't it? But my mouth remained shut, my voice silent, and walked Bombalurina back to her home without another word spoken.

I thought over those things as I sat on the sidewalk of 14th Avenue, the dividing border between our and Macavity's territory. Around me sat Mistoffelees, Tugger, and Gus...all of us sporting tails and four tiny cat paws. I had lost track of time since we'd arrived. My mind had been too wrapped up in Bombalurina, who had refused to show face as evening fell. I remembered the fear she had let show...whether consciously or not...and was still not quite sure what to make of it. Only respect for her privacy kept me from bombarding her with questions. Then again, as I stared out at the other Jellicle's territory, I wished I had known more of what I was getting into.

"You can still back out, if ya want," Tugger taunted in a low purr.

I shook my head. "No...I'm going."

Grinning smugly, Tugger rolled onto his back, rubbing it against the dark gray cement. "So how many hours b'fore we can declare ya dead?" Another one of his annoying laughs, and Gus shoved him roughly.

"Enough, Tugger." Then to me, his voice drooped, serious as sickness. "Munkustrap, if something happens, you get out of there. Leadership isn't worth a good cat's life."

Drawing a breath to calm my nerves somewhat, I nodded gravely. "I'll be back before morning."

There was no going back now. Slowly, tail and ears held low, I crept forward into the territory of Macavity.


	9. Munkustrap: WereCats 9

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Munkustrap – Part Nine

Almost the moment the Jellicles I knew disappeared from my sight I began to regret my decision. The city around me seemed to darken ten-fold as I crossed that one street, the busy sounds that had droned on never-ending on the other side of 14th street seemed to suddenly fall mute, as though I'd crossed an invisible barrier and the sounds that filtered through were muffled and distorted. Anxiously my tail lashed as I crept down an alley, the sidewalk vanishing from my vision. In addition to the light and noise, the population seemed to all of a sudden drop in number. On the other side of the street we had been dodging feet and cars, but now...just a mere transition of one street, and it seemed that Macavity's territory had been wiped clean by his own doing.

I had been "briefed on the coordinates" of Macavity's lair on the way to the border between our territories. An old apartment building—more like a slum as I arrived upon it—was beyond use other than by the homeless mendicants of New York and a fine array of stray animals. The sky already the dark with early night, I crouched still at the corner of a building across the filth-ridden street. I wanted to plan this entire thing out...start to finish...for if this Macavity person truly did exist the last thing I wanted was to meet him.

Getting in would be no problem. Nearly all the windows had lost their glass or entire frames due to old age and lack of maintenance. Slipping through one of them on my cat paws should be an easy task. Once in, I would have to find something that would be significant proof I had indeed gone in. It was an apartment, so perhaps...a room key? An embroidered towel or brochure? Surely the bottom floor was the lobby, and where most of the items may be. I chuckled to myself, probably at the relief of having to not go anywhere deep inside the building. The aura around the building as I stared at it didn't seem all that bad...nothing menacing here except a few humans and dogs.

But then I had no idea of the things lurking inside. I should have known better.

Put somewhat at ease by the lack of apparent threat, I stepped out boldly into the dim moonlight of the sidewalk, bristling then lowering my hackles as an exercise to set my mind to concentrate. Once I had my item I could slip out the same way and be out of here...gladly. I was a cat. I was stealth in one of nature's best forms. And with the cat came that undying confidence of being the best. With that as my only motivation, that and the welfare of my tribe, I stepped out into the street...

...and jerked back as a sudden screech of tires flashed inches before my nose.

"Hey!" I snarled, though any human who may have heard would only detect an angry feline yeowl. Leaping back to the sidewalk, I glared angrily at the black car, a beautiful model to be sure, but annulled by the fact it had almost ran me over. How come I hadn't heard it coming?

"Hey, Stripes! It's just us." The engine was shut off, the tinted window rolled down, and there was the grinning face of a very human Tugger. "Didn't see ya there for a sec."

Flattening my ears, I glared at him evilly, bristling. "What are you doing here?" I demanded. A thump as the passenger door was opened and shut, and Bombalurina came trotting around the car's front, hesitating as she saw me. I glared from her to Tugger again.

"You followed me!" I snarled, half angered, half relieved. Tugger's face grinned. Again annoying.

"You think we'd let you go alone?" he laughed.

"I'm supposed to go alone!" Flexing my claws, I would have liked to shred his face then and there, though why I was so angry I wasn't sure. I knew I was independent of them all...perhaps it was just the fact I had been interrupted. I wanted to get this over with a soon as possible.

"You don't know what you're gettin' into, Munkustrap," Bombalurina said gravely. "I know you're still gonna go in there, but..." She knelt down to my level. "We'll be out here, alright? In case anything happens. Don't fight, Munkustrap. Just run."

Her words sent a chill up my spine, just the grave seriousness of them. My tail wavered a moment, flicking side to side. She leaned forward, placing a soft human hand between my ears. "Be careful," she said, voice soft and quiet. For a moment our eyes met and locked. I might have felt something, seen something behind her tough outward appearance, but it passed too quickly for me to recognize it. No longer did she show that same fear...just...concern. Worry.

"I'll be fine," I said, and brushed by them towards the apartment building. I just hoped I wasn't making the same mistake as I had with Bustopher.

To be honest I felt a sort of sympathy for this Mystery Cat. As far as I knew he had never harmed me, or anyone else I knew. Yet I was sneaking into his territory, trespassing into his home for no reason other than to further my own position in my tribe. I look back on that sympathy now and I laugh, knowing that had I known all I did now I would have set the place ablaze in a moment's work. It would have saved us all so much trouble...but considering how all things turned out I'm glad I went on.

Through the gaps in the perimeter iron fence I went, my cat paws barely rustling as I crept over the dead grass patches in the dirt lawn. The building rose up before with all the qualities of a tombstone: rock walls, lifeless, cracked, and cold. Very cold. I didn't notice the chill in the air until I was within fifty paces of the building. Bristling my fur on instinct against the cold, I glanced back at the street only once. Tugger's black Mercedes still sat there, seeming to be as lifeless as the entire neighborhood. Flattening my ears, I lowered my head and held my tail rigid as I found a gap in the planks covering a low window and slipped inside...

...and into a tomb. Inside the temperature must have dropped twenty degrees, and not even the dim flicker of a fleeting cat could be seen in here as could outside. To a human the place would have been pitch dark, darker than night, but a cat's eyes reached out for the dim light filtered through the window plank gaps and pulled it in, illuminating the first floor just enough for me to see. A pile of dust billowed around me as my four paws landed on the age-old carpeted floor.

My hopes of finding anything on the first floor were immediately doused. As my eyes swept over the vast room before me, I could almost imagine the grand place this must have once been. Disturbing the layers of dust I could see beneath it the fancy design of the carpet. But the rest of the room was dark, deserted, covered in years of dust and cobwebs: exactly the place I'd imagined a character like Macavity to dwell in. Creeping forward, my whiskers caught the dustballs that drifted up with each sweep of my tail, each step of my paws. Spiders and tiny insects scattered from my path, their tiny feet scraping over the carpet a faint sound in my strained ears. My eyes blinked against a cold draft that blew from nowhere, carrying the dust I stirred back out behind me. Sniffing the draft, I smelled only insects, dust, and decaying wood. Nothing to be worried over...

Taking nearly five minutes to cross the front lobby in my slowness, to my right a grand staircase led up to the other floors of the building, on the opposite wall a fell elevators whose doors hung open and bent, their shafts empty. Heading toward the stairs, I set only one paw on the bottom step.

The dust had been thicker than I imagined, and combined with the draft that seemed to come from down the stairs it blew back into my whiskers, into my nose. I couldn't stop it...

"Ah-CHOO!!"

My sneeze, more feline than human, normally could have barely been heard on a city sidewalk, but in the stone-cold quietness of the dreary place it was magnified ten-fold, echoing off the bare walls and down the long hallways. Immediately I froze, every sense on the alert, spine rigid as my heart sped and breathing stopped. Slowly, barely even noticing it myself, I turned my head to gaze around and behind me, all over, for any signs of another being who may have heard me.

Five minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. When my fur finally lay flat again, my tail dropped its rigid stiffness, I proceeded up the stairs, one at a time, breathing out each time I took a step. Perhaps the Mystery Cat wasn't even here...

I searched the second floor. I searched the third. Nothing. Nearly identical, both floors were bare, stripped of all furniture and wallpaper, filled with nothing but long hallways and dozens after dozens of small rooms. All of them identical. All of them empty. Each floor took nearly an hour to search, with painstaking slowness. Each corner I turned, each door I slipped past, I expected to see something: some horrendous monster that I expected would be Macavity... And the more it never came, the more relaxed I began to grow. Until I reached the fourth floor.

Nothing at all was spectacular about it. The same as the first three... I had begun to speed up my pace, having gotten the impression by now that all the rooms were empty. It seemed that in all circumstances when something I expected to happen continuously did not, I grew careless: thinking it was safe. It certainly wasn't the first time.

It went off like a warning light. A noise behind me: a creak of boards. A footstep upon the carpet. A brush of fur against a wall. With an involuntary cry I whirled around, eyes focused and staring down the long hall stretching out behind me. Nothing moved. Not my fur, though the ever-present draft grew stronger with each floor. Not my eyes, which stared unblinking straight ahead, taking in every detail from my pawprints in the dust over the carpet to the cracks lining the wall corners. Not a sound was made, the silence pressing in around me like physical walls, grinding my nerves steadily shorter. The intensity of silence was unbearable, and I was on the verge of calling out just to break this silence when I heard the first, and most defining, sound I would ever heard from Macavity...

All around me I heard the echoing laugh, baritone deep, ringing off the dark walls with a maniacal timbre that surpassed any description of insanity. Its reverberation pounded into my mind: the sound of a thousand tortured souls wailing in that one laugh. It touched my soul, gripped my heart in an icy fear, and for a moment I was frozen. It began low, a deep-throated chuckle, but on a steep incline rose up, gaining height and intensity with each horrible crack of sound, until it reached out to the heavens in a pure wicked cackle. Like a crow of a triumphant murderer and the wail of centuries of broken spirits, my head throbbed with the noise, and if it hadn't drowned out all else I was certain I would have heard my skull cracking.

The laugh hadn't even died completely when a form, dark as night and twice as silent, appeared from thin air, standing fully on all fours, blocking the hallways with its bulk. I heard a sound. A deep, rolling sound that vibrated the floor beneath my paws and the heart within my chest. A growl.

I never knew the true meaning of fear until then. Unable to breathe, I felt the creature's eyes on me, daggers piercing into my soul. Unable to move, the voice of Bombalurina rang clear in my mind. Unable to think, I knew not what else to do.

"_Don't fight, Munkustrap. Just run_."

Run I did. As though pursued by flaming demons I turned and bolted headlong away from the dark figure, the figure of blackness and mystery that shamed the darkness around it, the being of evil whose power I could feel radiating out towards me, reaching for me... All around that laugh, that deafening, vile laugh, echoed through my mind with free access, redoubling my efforts to get away from this foe I knew by instinct but not by name...

Unless it was Macavity.

I shouldn't have run up. What would have been up there for me? A roof? Had I run down I could have possibly reached the lobby and run out. All things considered, I'm glad I didn't.

I ran up. One floor. Then another. Running, stumbling, doing anything and everything I could to get away from this thing that struck fear in me like no other. On the seventh floor of the building the rooms changed. To what, why, I don't know. Nor did I care. Directly across the stairway I ran for my life up on was a thick metal door, open a mere crack, and without a second's hesitance in my panicked run for safety I shifted to full werecat and hurled myself through it. I felt breath on my heel, felt the graze of snapping fangs...

I slammed the heavy metal door behind me, panting heavily, at that moment my heart racing beyond belief. My hand on the handle immediately snapped the lever down into a locked position; I was certainly _not_ going back out there! I leaned against the cold metal, feeling its security against my back as an assurance I was safe...perhaps for a moment. That laugh echoed in my ears—no: my mind—deeper and deeper down until it was so rooted in my memory I could never hope to pull it out. I wasn't sure of it at first, but the sound of breathing I thought I heard over the dying laugh wrenched my eyes open, and I gazed over the surroundings of the small room.

It was barely the size of a storage freezer. The walls were dark and ridden with a layer of grime, cold to the touch, with spots of black stains where either mold or some other material had stained the many spotted areas. The only thing dictating that perhaps this wasn't a freezer after all was the small window, ridden with bars, that was placed high up on the far wall, through which dim moonlight filtered through, gleaming off the grime of the sides. A single chain hung from the ceiling, probably where a light bulb was supposed to go, and beyond a pile of blankets in the corner there was nothing else in the room.

Or was it a pile of blankets?

A raspy, breathing sound emitted from the assumed pile, and slowly, concern for what I guessed was Macavity momentarily gone at this new item of curiosity, I approached and knelt beside the filthy packing blankets. I could see it better now: they were shaking. Something was under them. Unsheathing my claws, I drew back one arm, ready to slash, and with the other gingerly picked up the blanket and moved it aside to peer under the cover.

That was the first time I ever laid eyes on Demeter.

First I saw two eyes: two wide, moist eyes that neither blinked nor moved as they stared at me from the dark recesses of the filthy blanket. When no attack came I lifted it higher, and as the moonlight penetrated the darkness I next saw a face. Angled and smooth, the skin seemed to be a dark tone, with full lips and dark strands of hair that fell down over the face's eyes and billowed out around in a thick frame.

Whoever it was, it was a woman. No, not even...a girl. Drawing back in a gasp of surprise, I was even more astonished to suddenly remember I was in werecat form, and yet this young human girl hadn't made any move to scream or get away from me. What was she doing here? Another homeless urchin? Lifting the blanket up a little more, I halted and dropped it back quickly, leaving only her face visible. She wore nothing under the blanket, and had been curled in a fetis position that seemed to cover herself protectively. By now I was at a loss of what to do...

But one thing was certain: with Macavity here and raving, I wasn't going to leave this poor human to his claws. Gently, wrapping the thick blanket around her, I slipped my arms under where she lay to lift her into my arms. She tensed at the touch of my hands, her eyes darting in animalistic fear up at me. Quietly I told her to hush, that it was alright and I wasn't going to hurt her. I told her in a whisper I was taking her out of here. Still, she said nothing, but as I lifted her up she seemed to curl closer to my furry chest. Instantly I was amazed at how light she was...not because of my strength, but her weight. She must have been starving...

The bars to the window were easy enough to tear away with one hand, as old and rotten as the mortar was that held them in. Those bars hadn't been here originally, I knew. Someone had put them in. Probably someone named Macavity. I glanced through it, seeing the rocky construction site that stretched out behind the building, covered in rocks and debris. I groaned at the sight of it. If I jumped, with or without the girl, the landing would not be kind on my feet. Seven floors would be an easy enough jump, even with the extra bundle...

I felt the "extra bundle" tighten against me half of a second before a sudden scrape of claws on metal shot my heart up into my throat, and a horrible screech tore the air, sending shockwaves of pain into my ears. Crying out at the sudden attack of Macavity against the metal door to the room, I stumbled, almost loosing my footing against the force that blew against me at that sound...the feline scream that mixed that of a woman, a tire screech, and a dog howl. Whipping my face towards the door I saw it vibrate wildly, the scraping of heavy claws against it drowned by that infernal screech. I still had not yet seen what was behind that door, nor did I want to. I saw the hinges being pulled from the rotten wall, and a creak as the lock was steadily shoved from its place. Taking a breath, I slithered out the small window, gripping the edge with only my back footclaws, and letting the breath out I leaped out into open space at the exact moment I heard a crash of metal and the door gave way behind me.

The screech was all I heard as I fell, tumbling through the air, so caught up by the sound of absolute savagery in that screech I almost didn't right myself in time to land on my feet on the ground. Letting my knees go soft to absorb the shock of the landing, they buckled involuntarily as the sharp jab of rocks struck my black footpads, my knees slamming themselves onto further crushed rock that was agonizing. Holding the girl tight with one arm I let the other one fall to keep me from collapsing, my face wrenching in pain as torture seared up the nerves along my legs and knees. Heaving breaths I wanted to wait until the fire died to go on, but Macavity had other ideas.

The sound died on the air, and slowly, painfully, I stood up. The girl in my arms was trembling, a small whimper escaping her from under the wrap of blanket. Shifting her slightly so that I held her closer to my shoulder, I turned back to gaze up at the window. Dark, seven stories high, not a sign of the Hidden Paw anywhere. Finally remembering to breathe, I kept my eyes locked on the window as I backed away slowly, afraid to look elsewhere.

What had frightened me so much of Macavity? I had yet to lay eyes on him and yet he struck a fear in me I couldn't describe. I'm not even going to try. Macavity terrified me...and that is as plain as I can state it. A large boulder momentarily stopped my backward retreat, and by then I was far away enough to where I thought that if I dashed like mad towards where Tugger and Bombalurina were waiting I might have a chance of getting away.

I turned, and stopped.

He was there! Sitting on a rusted construction beam, in front of me all I could see in the moonlight was his profile: a full male werecat. He sat with a strange peace that mocked my frantic insides, liquid with terror at the sight of this Jellicle.

"You have something that's mine," hissed the smoothest and I daresay most sensual voice I'd ever heard. "Give it back, and I'll let you live."

He could only be talking about the girl. I said nothing. His face covered in shadow, I couldn't see his face, his fangs, his muzzle, his eyes...all the better. Holding the bulge of the girl's head tight against me, who at the sound of his voice I could feel her go very still, I backed away. Macavity stood, but not a sound was made. His movements were pure liquid, flowing like water. He stepped closer to me, and from the darkness of his shadow I could feel his eyes reaching out, touching my mind and painting pictures there of...things. Things I couldn't make any sense of...

"Give her back to me..."

And that was the moment I made the move that would seal both our fates: I ran. Like a Hellhound pursued by flaming demons, I ran. The rocks on my padded feet were forgotten entirely as I bolted for all I was worth. At such speed the high wooden wall surrounding the construction site was a mere leap for me, and the cool black pavement of the street was mother's milk to my feet. Sprinting down the dark, empty street I spared no energy from my flight away from Macavity. I couldn't hear if he was behind me. I didn't try. I ran.

In times of fear or battle it seems that werecat minds are reduced to their most basic instincts. Sometimes I find that I don't even think when I'm aroused in passion, anger, or fear. I act. Do whatever is necessary to survive, whether it be to kill or run. I don't know if humans act this same way...I never was one. 

Rounding the corner of the building I saw the sleek black outline of Tugger's Mercedes. A beacon in the night, I redoubled my efforts. Against my chest the girl was clutching tightly, not a sound uttered over my ragged pants. Cats were not built to run long distances...

"Start the car!" I roared, hurling myself forward with the strength of an entire stampede. Tugger had been leaning against the smooth black metal in werecat form, seemingly at ease, rather than Bombalurina, who in like appearance was standing rigidly at his side. Impossible...how could they have not heard the screeches of that monster? Startled by my voice, they sprung to life as I bore down upon them. I wasted no time...we _had_ to get out of here! Throwing open the nearest door that came into my clawed hand, I didn't see Bombalurina's white face as she grabbed my shoulder frantically.

"Give her to me," Bombalurina gasped. I thrust the wrapped bundle in my arms to her, whirling in a flash to jump into the driver's seat and slam the door behind me as she flung herself with the girl into the back. I didn't bother to ask how she knew the wrapped bundle was a girl. My mind was elsewhere. I slapped my claws on the steering wheel of the car.

Nothing happened.

Beside me, Tugger glanced frantically through the back window.

"C'mon," he growled. "What're ya waitin' for?!"

My mouth fell open, but in my panic I said nothing. I squeezed the wheel.

"Aw, don't tell me ya can't drive, Stripes!"

"I never had to learn!" I snapped, feeling the full bear of pressure suddenly let loose upon me. It was true. In such a crowded place like New York, with all the limousines and chauffeurs one could ask for: why bother to learn? With a snarl Tugger's claws shoved me away and he climbed over me into the driver's seat, where he slammed the ignition, floored the accelerator and sent me tumbling to the back seat with Bombalurina and the bundle. He yeowled in triumph as we sped away, and righting myself with care to watch my feet and knees I scooted to the other side of the long seat, letting Bombalurina and the silent girl have their space. Only concern made me look back behind us, at the dark empty street that was quickly vanishing. But Macavity wasn't there...

"Well, Stripes," Tugger wheezed lightly as we pulled back into New York traffic, the three of us shifting back to humans, for once not at all concerned about the jams. As the car slowed to a stop in the midst of waiting vehicles he glanced back, eyeing the bundle before turning his smiling eyes on me. "Looks like you at least got _somethin'_ from inside ol' Napoleon's lair, eh?"

The sun was rising over New York City as the three—rather, four—of us tumbled into my penthouse after taking the fire escape route up. Aching and tired, I collapsed gratefully onto the couch in the main hall, uncaring of any filth I adorned. Lifting my head only long enough to see Bombalurina leap from the windowsill, her arms supporting the fragile girl like a porcelain vase as she looked to me. Flicking one hand in a practiced gesture I motioned her toward one of the guest rooms down the hall on the first floor, where she quickly made to with the girl. Curious as I was, any questions I had could wait. I was exhausted. I wanted to let my ears do the work to make sure the last of our small posse shut the window behind him, but—blast that Tugger—his silence forced my eyes open in a reaction glance.

Tugger's merriment, oddly enough, had stopped shortly after we had starting climbing the metal rails to safety. Falling quickly and utterly silent, he stood now at the window overlooking Manhattan, leaning against the sill so that his back was to me. Smiling slightly to myself as I gazed at him, I drew a long breath before wheezing: "Thanks for coming along, Tugger."

His reply was only a grunt, not even a shrug of his shoulders to accompany it. Thinking perhaps it was mutual exhaustion that caused his unusual silence, I let it go and leaned by head back, stretching and forcing myself to relax. Macavity was still heavy on my mind. His laugh...those eyes... I shuddered.

"Tugger, would you mind calling up Gus and the others to let them know we're alright?"

"Do it yerself."

Perplexed, more at the snap in his voice than by his refusal, I looked up once again, blinking against the rising light. "Pardon?"

Tugger turned sharply, the light just dim enough for me to see his face. I was openly shocked at the expression I saw there. Anger. Hatred. _Jealousy_? I could smell the last more than see it. It wafted out from him like invisible poison, making him seem more cat-like in his human form than ever before. At his side a fist was clenched. "Let's get one thing straight, Fatcat. Jus' 'cause yer Jellicle Leader now don't mean I'm gonna be takin' orders from you left'n'right!"

Really too tired to do much, I retaliated with only an exasperated pronouncing of his name, which even so went interrupted.

"Lissen, Rich Boy!" he snarled, a name he hadn't called me in years. "Yer Leader now. Big whoop an' yeowl! I cud do this job twice as good as you...jus' gimme one reason t' take ya on in a fight. Jus' one!" Still fuming he swept back out the same way, leaving an honestly astonished and dumbfounded me alone. I didn't understand Tugger's anger other than he was jealous. Why should he be? Why so sudden? I held nothing against him, other than a friendly rivalry that was common among toms that usually only came into play with that irritating laugh of his. I wanted to follow him, to try and clear up whatever misunderstanding had happened in his radical mind. And to be honest, this brazen anger from him towards me hurt a surprising deal. Moreso than I ever would have thought. I had never thought of Tugger as a friend until then. But I was so tired...

I was on the verge of well-needed sleep when Bombalurina slipped back in. Did her energy never end? Rolling my head to the side I watched as she sat down on the other end of the couch, crossing both her arms and legs, setting her chin on her fist in deep thought. She didn't look the least bit tired. But something hovered over her like a dark cloud, a nagging thought that wouldn't go away.

"How is she?" I ventured.

"Asleep," was all Bombalurina would say. I watched her a moment longer, suppressing a yawn. She was gnawing on her nails now, staring forward as though into space. Her other fist was clenched across her knee, tightening and loosening in an odd manner according to her thoughts. I watched the sun flit across the strands of her red hair, like fire, and the profile of her face shamed by such worry. I wished I knew what to say...

"You can have my bed upstairs if you're tired," I suggested. Looking up as though seeing me for the first time, she shook her head.

"No, no...I'll be fine. Um, want me to look at those pads?" She indicated my feet, which in my fatigue I had nearly forgotten about. Remembering they were there reawakened the sharp pains of both the wounds and their rapid healing. I shifted positions in self-consciousness, and reluctantly allowed her to tend to them. I think it took her mind off what was bothering her, and neither of us would have had it any other way. Settling back on the couch, I had hoped to spend the pampering quietly. Bombalurina had something else in mind.

"Where did you find her?"

"Some room on the seventh floor. It was an old freezer, or..._Rowr_!"

"Sorry," she muttered, having jerked at my answer, intentionally or not. Drawing back a little as she brought the wet cloth forward again I caught her wrist, holding it steady until she finally met my gaze.

"Bal, what's wrong? You've never been like this before. An incident with Macavity, this new arrival...there's something you're not telling me."

It took a moment of her staring at the ground in shame before she spoke, and I let her go. What followed then was an outpour of emotion such as I'd never seen before from such a strong individual.

"That girl, Hunter, is Desere Arshra. I...I knew her when I was still..._with_...Macavity."

_Desere_, I thought, but out loud: "_With_ him? You were in love with him?"

She shook her head, seeming torn between shame and regret, neither of which were dimming the more she thought about it. I scooted forward, taking her arm gently. "I thought I did," she said. "I was young...I barely even knew other Jellicles existed. I...I didn't see at first how evil he was, but, time went on, and I began to see..." She pulled away from me, rising to her feet, her arms still crossed as she turned her back and moved over the room slowly, reliving old memories. "I ran away finally. I didn't wanna be a part of it anymore. Desere I left behind because...oh, Heaviside, I don't know why. I've thought about her so often..." A pause. Heavy silence. "I never should have left her in that Hell hole. She's a Jellicle, too, but..."

I moved behind her, stepping gingerly on my bare feet, but knew better than to try and again to physically comfort her, as she would only distance herself again. She had been hurt. That much I could see. The tough demeanor I had always guessed was just her personality was partly a cover for her, to protect her from letting what Macavity had done to her from happening again. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what had gone on between them. It was probably best that I didn't know, and didn't ask any further. For the same elusive reason I wasn't surprised at the news of the girl's identity. Perhaps I had smelled it on her, but failed to recognize the taint of feline blood.

"It's in the past," I finally breathed. "It's over now. You don't have to worry over it anymore..."

She turned to look at me. I couldn't describe the look on her face. Bombalurina was always like that, always somehow blurring what she really thought so that her expression could never be read. Dim, at best, at worst downright unreadable. Our faces met now, and that was the exact message I could read: nothing.

I admit I had always found Bombalurina attractive. In fact, most werecat females stood out as extraordinary (and rightfully so), and were hard not to notice, even by human standards. I watched her face now, her blue eyes and fiery red hair, and despite the attraction I remained where I was, accompanying her through her trip of remorse, though I could not in the least claim I felt as much as she did.

"Munkustrap, Macavity knows me. He knows where I live. I don't wanna put her in that situation where he might find her again. It's too dangerous..."

Concern aroused by this, I broke off my stare. "What about you? If he comes back...?"

"I'll go somewhere else for awhile," she said quietly, crossing her arms and looking diagonally to the floor. She wouldn't look at me again. "He'll get over it...with time. I know he will. He always did..." She sniffed, wiping her face though I had detected no tears. "After awhile I can go back, when it's safe, but..."

Heaviside, she looked so frightened... That tough, concealing mask had abandoned her, and in what I saw exposed beneath it was more heart-tearing than the face of that girl Desere. I wanted to comfort her, do something to wipe away this distant fear—concern, worry, whatever it was—she held for Macavity. The only problem was I didn't know what to do...

"I can't support her, Hunter. With the way I live...Heaviside, I don't know what to do!"

Before I could really think about it I reached out to pull her close in a supportive hug of friendship. Friendship, and that was all. As much as I felt drawn it would have done neither of us any good to fall in a romantic situation with each other. Neither of us wanted that, and with good reason. I felt her turn in slightly against me, seeming to welcome whatever comfort I could offer. Keeping my other hand lowered steadily at my side, I leaned by head against hers, mind working quickly. Surely with all my resources I could find something...

"She can stay here..."

Bombalurina turned to look up at me, fear momentarily over-written by curiosity. She stared at my face, possibly trying to seek out any misgivings in my features, which I supposed there were none. After a moment of searching and puzzling: "But what'll the other people think when they see—?"

"Who cares what they think?" I cut her off, speaking absolute truth. "This isn't about me, Gwyn. This is about her safety, and yours. Macavity doesn't know me. She can stay here."

"What will the other Jellicles think?"

"I don't know."

She pulled away again, gazing behind me down the hallway to where the girl was sleeping, concealed in a room of warmth, safety, and privacy. I didn't move to follow her as she side-stepped back towards the couch, and by the thick silence and dull scent that filled the room, it seemed she was in deep consideration. Glancing out the window, I watched the morning scene of Manhattan. A bright, new day in the city, chasing away the dark nightmares of the night and all that had happened. With the sunlight Bombalurina could forget whatever guilt she carried. Desere was with us now, safe. Bombalurina—Gwyneth McKormick—could move on. I began to wonder why I had never noticed such behavior from her before. We weren't social on a regular basis, of course, but even so as friends I felt I should have had at least had a general knowledge of what had gone on... That could change now, I told myself. Now that I was Jellicle Leader, things would change. And they would start today...

"_Macavity's a Mystery Cat, he's called the Hidden Paw_..."

A soft, gentle, sensuous voice turned me around to see Bombalurina, shifted fully to werecat, slinking across the carpeted room with such grace and skill I remained silent in awe. Not only swept up in the erotic style of her movements, but her words...her words which were sung short, fearful, speaking of the Mystery Cat.

"_You would know him if you saw him_..."

Her dance, showing pain, fear, and yet a kind of..._admiration_, was by far more expressive than her words, which rang out in perfect pitch...

"_Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity_..."

I could see her meaning clearly. Just as I feared Macavity the moment I set eyes upon him, so did she. Yet there was more to her fear. Respect, admiration, perhaps the remnants of whatever love she could have felt for such a creature. I shuddered at that. How could a monster such as I had encountered possibly feel such things as love? And not only that, but to have it returned? Perhaps I was shallow-minded when it came to Macavity. Who was I to judge, having only encountered him once and by far from under good circumstances? Leaning against the window I let Bombalurina give full energy to her dance and song, no matter what reason she was choosing to do it. All I could do was admire and wonder...

"_Macavity's not there_!"

Afterwards, exhaustion must have finally gotten to the fiery red queen, for she took my offer for the sleeping place, and after making certain she had settled in comfortably, I found myself in my study, rather than collapsing for the sleep I yearned for on the couch. Opening my journal I proceeded to write down every word of Macavity's song, and soon after calling up Gus and the others to let them know we were alright, and of my plans to let Desere reside with me.

To be frank, Skimble was outraged.

"What happens when she goes in Heat?" he snarled. "You livin' alone with her? Heaviside knows what a tom could do when not in his right mind!"

His words of course stirred a deep truth, but I refused to let it daunt what I had already set in motion. "I rescued her," I answered him steadily. "As Jellicle Leader I take on my responsibility to watch over other Jellicles, and Desere is no exception." Seeing he and the others were unconvinced, I added: "I give my word, swearing to Heaviside and on my father's honor (a lot of good _that_ would have done), I won't lay a paw on her."

That silenced the yellow-orange tabby, who seemed in a constant state of dissent, or rather just being over-cautious over most things. Tugger hadn't responded to my message of gathering at Jenny's Sanctuary. Let him be, I decided after a moment of worry. Concentrate on more important things... I warned the adults and elders present as well as the kittens to be on the alert for anything Macavity might try. Provoked as he was...admittedly, I did trespass and steal from him...there could be any kind of vengeful act on us. We could only wait and see...

"Hunter," Gus took me aside after making my speeches and giving warnings. That alone was strange. It seemed a bit natural, speeches having been a practiced thing among one of my stature. But these weren't for silly human parties. These were for real, the safety of these Jellicles were in my paws. I had begun to leave the Sanctuary pondering the solidity of my decision and what it was I had taken upon myself when Gus hailed me. "I've no doubt you can handle this position," he told me. "But, the girl, Hunter. Can we really trust you?"

Flicking the switch inside me that would turn my mind over to that of Hunter Blakeney, I smiled warmly at him, patting his back. "Sink me, Gus! I give you my demmed word of honor and you have the audacity to doubt me?" Still laughing, I took the liberty to borrow a line from the esteemed Henry Higgins. "She's sacred, I assure you."

Something about seeing the public me settled whatever had been troubling his mind, and he let me be. Bounding out gently towards my parked and waiting limousine, I saw Bombalurina leaning against it, smiling slightly with her full red lips and blue eyes. Still in my merry mode, I smiled warmly, tipping my hat with the silver head of my cane. Having nothing really to do with the need for walking assistance or for looks, the cane was hollow inside, housing a long blade of pure silver. Very useful if one should come upon an angry werewolf or vampire. It was an old model I found in my father's journal, based on some old design from England...

"Good day, Madame," I chirped. She laughed a little, abandoning her lean to sidle so that we stood together on the sidewalk. All the cats knew of my little public disguise, and as annoying as it may have been they seemed to tolerate it.

"I wanted to thank you," she said at length."I think it's great...that you'd do a thing like this."

"It's nothing," I answered, bowing slightly. "Really." I had deemed it wise not to bring up the events in my penthouse only yesterday, as she seemed to have forgotten it entirely. Rather not to focus on such things. "Tell me, Gwyneth," I said, extending my arm for her to take. "How do you feel for lunch at one of the best restaurants in Manhattan?"

"I think I feel hungry," she smiled, taking my arm, and together we slipped into the limousine and drove off.

Technically this would be _about_ where the story would end and the RPG begins, the events then continuing from there, but just for the heck of it I'm going to keep working on this if I can.


	10. Munkustrap: WereCats 10

****

Munkustrap – Part Ten

I had thought that inviting Desere to live with me, taking in a ward so suddenly, would have been a dramatic change from my solitary bachelor life. I had thought that I would have to change so many things about the way I lived to make her comfortable and at home. And I was wrong. Barely anything changed.

While Bombalurina was residing in a private location away from Macavity's detection, she was also helping me get Desere settled. For nearly the entire week after her arrival all the two females did was talk, in the penthouse, at restaurants, for hours on end they caught up on whatever had gone on in the time they were separated, I imagine. I didn't try to intrude, but the way sound carries in that large place of mine their voices drifted throughout the large, open spaces, and I was able to pick up bits of their conversation before turning on the radio. I won't repeat the things I heard...it would be a betrayal of trust. In that time they grew so close one would think they were sisters. Perhaps it was like that before... I could stand in the doorway of a room and watch how they interacted. Sometimes they didn't even need to speak, they were such in-tune.

Knowing very little about females myself, I left it up to Bombalurina to shop for whatever Desere would need. The girl was very modest. She didn't seem to want anything, never asked for anything. When I offered her anything, even a handshake, she would shrink away from me as though my intentions were all the same. She didn't like being fussed over in the slightest way, refused most luxuries. Bombalurina tried to explain it as Desere having a strong distrust in men. After all that had been done to her...

"There's never been a tom that's been kind to her," she told me once. "She doesn't hate you, it's more like a..." She didn't seem to be able to finish.

"It's alright," I nodded. "We'll just have to change that, won't we?"

"You're a good cat, Hunter. She can learn to trust you, at least."

My turn to be modest.

But if Desere was in any way wanting to trust me, she seemed in no hurry. In the days when business or affairs didn't take me elsewhere and I remained at the penthouse all day, she rarely even left the privacy of her room. Of course I only noticed this after four or five months. Of my entire penthouse Desere had full possession of the larger half I rarely used, if ever. Some days I never even saw or spoke to her. She was very uncomfortable around other people. Of the parties I threw occasionally (not by my own will...demmed boring, those things are) she remained in the privacy of her own room. What she did, I was never certain. In the few times when I slipped inside to ask if she needed anything I usually found her seated in a chair or staring out a window, curled up in her thick woolly bathrobes. She wouldn't speak to me. A nod or shake of her head when I inquired, and that would be the end of it. I tried not to bother her, never pressing her to attend any of those flashy spectacles or to accompany me anywhere in public. I left her to herself: quiet, alone, cold... La, sounds like another relationship I once had with another woman.

But really Desere reminded me nothing of Adelle. Dark-skinned and dark-haired, unobtrusive and never smiling, she was everything Adelle wasn't. She never wore dresses, never wore anything much at all except the numerous thick bathrobes she possessed that covered her figure entirely, nor did she adorn any kind of jewelry or cosmetics. Her hair—odd, her human mane being almost black when her werecat fur was the purest of gold—never changed from hanging straight down. Despite all this...sometimes...I could be sitting in the silence of my study and hear her footsteps down the hall, her quiet breathing, and for a fleeting hopeful second I would think it was Adelle. A glance at a sun-filled window would annul those thoughts quickly.

But in those years I lived separately with Desere I was quite busy. After renouncing his leadership of the Jellicles and retiring from his acting career, it seemed that Gus had unlimited time on his hands. Back and forth we worked on my idea of a musical production about us werecats, writing music, incorporating every song we knew, using our cat names and descriptions as characters. Lyrics and music were really no problem, as the content we used were the very same songs sung in everyday Jellicle life...Bustopher's, Jennyanydots's, Tugger's, nearly all the cats in Manhattan had song about themselves save the younger generation. I wish Bombalurina had one about her...or Cassandra...but Skimble, Gus, and the rest would have to suffice. The Jellicle Ball was to be the centerpoint of the entire spectacle, every verse sung by the cat characters and followed by an astounding dance piece that Cassandra spent a large time in choreographing. Dancing for the slim brown female was second nature, and between her, Bombalurina, Mistoffelees, and Jennyanydots they conjured up dance routines to the songs that left both Gus and I astonished. It was put together in less than a year.

I hadn't noticed I'd been so wrapped up in the research and decision-making about other aspects of the show—costumes, set, makeup, and such—until one day I received a phonecall from Lord Greene.

"For pity's sake, man, we haven't seen you in a month!"

Frowning, I leaned back with a pop of my spine from where I'd been leaning intently over a character representation sketch of Pouncival, rubbing my eyes. It was only beginning to get dark. "I say, whatever do you mean?"

"Come now, Blakeney. You've been so wrapped up recently some of the ol' boys have been missing you..."

Missing me? That was the lie of the day.

"...perhaps because of that little beauty living with you, eh?" A laugh of knowing from the other end which left my expression one of open horror. "You dog."

"Demmed impertinence!" I growled, cutting his laughter short. "I'll have you know, my good man, that girl is an unfortunate friend who is in serious need of some protection and is of little more worth to me other than a daughter!"

"Well, I only meant—"

"Do state the purpose of your call, sir. I've got demmed better things to occupy my time than sit here and listen to your insults." Harsh words for a nincompoop. I'm sure that's what he thought.

"Ah...yes. Um, well, an old friend of yours has called me up to request that I inform you: she is giving a masquerade charity ball."

I was unsuccessful in trying to place who he meant by an old female friend, and didn't try for long. Most people found it a brag to call themselves Hunter Blakeney's 'friend.' "Why did she not call herself?"

"She would rather surprise you."

_Heaviside blast it_... "Very well, I'd be happy to attend. Oh dear, what to wear..." Another lie. I received the date and location and promptly hung up before he could make any further requests, which by his tone I felt he might. I didn't notice Desere standing in the door until I heard her voice.

"Hunter?"

Turning, it was like seeing a fish out of water to spot her there, covered in her silk green bathrobe: the only thin piece she seemed comfortable to wear. I was surprised, as well. Not often did _she_ seek _me_ out.

"Yes, dear?"

She folded her arms across herself, her face turned down. "I think...I need to go to Bombalurina's..."

Probably the longest sentence she'd said to me thus far. Rising from my chair with a painful strain in my numb feet, I was on the verge of asking why as I stepped closer to her. A few paces, and I found out. Stopping immediately in my tracks, I drew in a breath and held it, stiffening. "Oh...I see. I'll...er...I'll go call you a ride. Gather whatever you'll need."

She lingered a moment, then just as silent turned and padded back to her room. I let my breath out rapidly, shaking back my messed hair. That was strange...

Desere's female heats weren't as much of a problem as I had originally thought. Firstly, she didn't have them as often as other females did. I didn't know why...nor were they as intense as, say, Cassandra's. I had only to take a few steps towards her to smell the taint in the air, and despite the urges which were obviously present I found I had much more control than with Cassandra. Still, I didn't want to take any chances. As time went on it became a routine. Either she was sent away to Bombalurina's or Jennyanydots's until the short time was over, or I could arrange to be away in the time she was putting off her scent. More often it was the first option, as I didn't like leaving her alone.

Her paranoia seemed to have no end. Never did she let me touch her. Save for that frantic time I carried her away from Macavity's realm no contact was allowed. But despite her fear of me, some things Desere did were entirely on her own—well, perhaps some Bombalurina influence—and I imagine were done out of pure effort for my sake. Such as cooking... After releasing my maidservant I had gotten most of my meals from restaurants or whatever my whiskers could pick up in an alley (not often from the alley though...the heartburn was terrible), for if I'd been living on my own efforts in the kitchen I'd have starved to death long ago. To arrive home one evening and find a home-cooked dinner set out was a welcome change from the frequent outings. Desere was a marvelous chef, though where she learned I never inquired to ask. Nor did she join me. I ate alone, but it didn't overly bother me. I slipped a small note under the door of her room thanking her for the supper, and on every occasion afterward when I couldn't say it to her in person.

It was in the time she spent at Bombalurina's waiting out her heat that I tore myself away from the musical long enough to focus on the masquerade I'd been invited to. Demmed my father's sayings, for one was always that a gentleman never refuses an invitation. That was in my head as I sat before the fireplace, a gentle frost gathering outside in the late October month. Just for the comfort of feeling the warmth of the fire on my bare fur I shifted to full werecat and paced the room gently, gazing over the space in hopes of an idea of what to attend dressed as...and also who was the unknown female 'friend.'

As far as I knew I had no real friends. Not anymore. Mark as I think back on him in absolute guilt I despise, his behavior being exactly what I wasn't now. Bustopher was more of my father than my father had ever been. None closer. The incident with Desere had certainly brought Bombalurina and I closer, perhaps our friendship blooming out of mere necessity and concern for my ward. Tugger had cut me off after the same event. I hadn't spoken to him since. But overall, in between these special Jellicles in my life, I don't think I had any friends. I think the other Jellicles were shifty and...I daresay it...uncomfortable around where I lived. I may as well admit it: none of the other cats shared my social class, and it put a void between us.

No friends weren't a bother to me. I liked to be alone, sitting in the dry comfort of my study with only my books and a cold drink. I had never held a job in my life—with my fortunes, there was never a need—and to keep myself from going mad a steady occupation was needed. Easy enough. I had my history and antiques that I collected, most of it Jellicle origin, but not all. For days on end I could stay absorbed in a particular subject before I stumbled over something else that caught my interest. Already I had refilled the study and library with atlases, history books, and books of occult rather than the collection of literature and poetry my father kept. With these and my searches over the Internet and my contacts around the world, I could keep a keen eye open for any other items I might like to get my paws around.

As for Desere...

I tried everything I knew. All she had to do was ask for anything she wanted and it would be hers. She had entire freedom to come and go as she pleased. If she wanted to see Bombalurina, as she often did, I would send her over in a chauffeured ride or have Bombalurina come here. I tried to make her as comfortable as I could, left her to her privacy, was as friendly as I could in the times when she came about. After quite some time I could get her to talk for over five minutes, but not very often. She never seemed happy, and yet I could never find the cause. Even she told Bombalurina she was comfortable and felt safe here. Without having been informed of what had gone on between the two of them and Macavity I doubted I ever would know the true cause of her unhappiness. I had a general idea, though.

An hour passed. Still I had not found the slightest idea of who the hostess could be. But I had at least decided on a costume idea. It came from when I had caught a glimpse of my stripes in the wall mirror. A tiger... Shifting back to my human self, complete with forever fur, I grabbed the necessary books from the shelf for design references when I caught a closer look at myself in that same mirror.

Something about my hair in particular caught my eye. Turning so that I faced the mirror profile, I brushed my fingers carefully over the fringe of hair I kept cut just above my ears. My hair I had never really fussed with, keeping it cut long and held back in the ponytail-style I'd seen worn around the late 1700s, around the French Revolution (one of my favorite time periods of which I had a particular interest in). But that wasn't what struck me then in a burst of surprise...

Gray. My hair was beginning to turn gray.

For some odd reason I laughed and drew back away from the mirror. It was strange, now that I think about it. Usually Jellicles have hair in their human form that mimics their feline coats: Bombalurina's was red, Bustopher's was black, and so on. But my hair had always been that strange brown-blonde mix while my coat was silver. The notion that my hair was going gray now seemed only appropriate, and didn't bother me much. I had too many other things to think about.

And demmed that I allowed myself to endure those boring spectacles of show like that masquerade ball. Of course I could always chuckle at the thought of how much more boring they would have been had Hunter Blakeney not been there! Sink me, what a notion! But even that didn't make me any more enthusiastic about attending.

For the masquerade I had a suit designed like a tiger. A yellow frock coat covered in bold black stripes, it had an excessive amount of lace ruffles and satin frills: common Blakeney style. Custom-made to fit me, it was completed with the silk breeches and sparkling vest common with that time period I held such an interest in. And, of course, a matching tiger mask.

At roughly nine o'clock I was decked fully in this ridiculous outfit and striding with the proud gait of a peacock into the enormous complex whose owner and host were still unknown. Lights flooded the complex, making it ablaze with gold and a beacon of life in the frosty October night scene of Manhattan. Like a palace... And the scene inside the enormous gathering entrance was even more of a spectacle. Men and women of all kinds dressed in the most elaborate and colorful costumes. Some were demons, some were birds, some jesters, others unrecognizable. Yet among the tinkle of clinking glasses and the soft music playing over the area they were the ideal images of merriment. Slipping my tiger mask down over my face, I strode through them purposefully with no real destination in mind except the table at the other end of the hall where I could perhaps find a seat. Wishful thinking...

It seemed not even a mask could hide my identity. Perhaps it was the relation my outfit had to a cat... Whatever the reason no sooner had I taken a step among them was I surrounded in cheerful greetings and gestures. They were returned, of course, in typical Blakeney style, and right off I invitations to dance were uncountable. Ah, well, suffering is good for the soul, I imagine.

The hours swept by. Despite the constant despair at being around so many people—sometimes feeling as though I could barely breathe—the quick, graceful steps of the waltzes sent the background colors of the room into a gently spinning blur as I focused on the face of whichever young girl happened to be near at the time. There were all so alike...all wearing too much perfume that burned my nose, all so eager and excited to be about their conversation was downright ditzy, and all horrible dancers. No natural grace or rhythm to speak of whatsoever. Countless mask styles and colors had passed before me by the time I decided I'd put up with enough, and pulling a handkerchief to dab at my brow I excused myself and hurried to the far end of the room that had so far been detained for nearly two hours. Slipping to the table I snatched a glass of champagne and downed it in one gulp, barely feeling the angry jerk of my gut as I did so. The raven-dressed tender eyed me quizzically.

"Thirsty, sir?"

I laughed tiredly at him, straightening. "You don't know the half of it..." Then I felt a tap on my shoulder.

"Mr. Blakeney?"

I turned, searching through the sequence and feathers until a green peacock-style mask popped up all of two inches from my face. Jumping back with a small cry that could well be disguised as a laugh, a small white-gloved hand reached up to pull away the mask, under which a smiling face and slight giggle could be heard. A powdered round face, those dark eyes and red lips struck my memory in an explosion of realization, and lifting my tiger mask I couldn't contain my surprise.

"Sara!?!"

"Hello Hunter," Sara Whitson smiled sweetly. There was my unknown hostess. "It's been awhile, hasn't it?"

"Forever," I nodded, caught between nervousness at what had happened the last time I'd been with her and relief at a familiar face.

"It's good to see you," she went on, extending her hand in ceremonial fashion. "I hoped you'd come."

Bowing with equal custom, I took her hand and kissed the back of it, glancing up with the same idiotic smile. To be honest I wasn't sure what to say. The last time I'd seen Sara was not the most pleasing of situations, and the awkwardness at seeing her so suddenly again whirled my mind back to that same set mode it had been in that night when I was seventeen. The brat...

"Sink me, madame! You haven't changed a bit since I last saw you. Abso-blooming-lutely lovely party, for sure."

"Oh, Hunter," she laughed, "flattery will get you nowhere. Come along." Side by side we walked slowly around the edge of the dance floor. "It's so stuffy in here, would you rather grab some fresh air outside?"

"Odd's fish, you read my mind!"

"I heard about your wife," she said at length sincerely. "I'm so sorry..."

"Ah, yes, well," Hunter sighed, lowering my mask, "demmed things happen to even the best of us."

"What happened?"

"Inconsolable differences, my dear. It couldn't be helped." It was a half-truth. Scratching my forehead with another sigh, I turned my thoughts away by pure force. "I say, how have you gotten along? I'm absolutely certain a hundred men must have thrown themselves at your feet after a mere glance of your lovely self!"

"Why, Mr. Blakeney," she laughed. I extended my arm in a gentlemen-like fashion, and she took it, and together we strolled out for the terrace. "You have changed so much from that little boy I knew who turned seventeen."

Blushing at the memory, Hunter Blakeney only grinned wider. "La, my dear, how you remember! I do say, I must apologize for that night, Miss Whitson. It has been heavy on my mind ever since."

"Oh no," she said, equally sincere. "It's I who should apologize. I can't imagine your voice being this high had I not...well, you remember."

Yes, I did remember. And as outraged as I was at the mention of my voice pitch (which wasn't high at all, by Heaviside!) Hunter only laughed again. "As your ladyship wishes."

The double glass doors which opened up into the terrace were already propped open, and stepping out into the chilly October air was a welcome release from the hot interior of the complex. Taking in a deep breath I pulled off my mask and set it on the glass table near the door. Sara did likewise with hers. I tossed up my arms to allow some of the cool night air to get within the folds of my jacket, wiping away the clinging heat. Drawn by the noises below for no particular reason, I moved away from Sara a moment to ease toward the edge of the building, peering over into the brightly-lit street. The wind over the edge of the building was stronger, and felt wonderful as I turned my face into it. There was always something about wind...something I loved...

"Lovely night," Sara said. Turning back, one hand set in my pocket, I saw her seated on the bench. The sight of her sitting there I daresay was beautiful. She wasn't the girl I knew before; she looked more mature, more ladylike now. Her ankles crossed beneath the intricate-carved legs of the stone bench, her hands folded in her lap. Her skin against her dark emerald-green dress was pale as ivory and just as smooth. Her dark near-black hair was thick and curled around her cheeks and throat, not straight and short as when the last time I'd seen her. She had a woman's qualities, and what I thought about that I wasn't quite sure.

"It is," I nodded, turning back.

"Come on, Hunter." She patted the bench beside her. I eyed it warily, one brow raised. "Well, come on!" she laughed after a moment. "I won't bite."

_Thank Heaviside_...

But I knew better. I don't know why I went ahead and sat down...I guess I have a hard time learning things when it comes to the opposite gender. I leaned forward, hands clasped and elbows set on my knees, staring at the lights filtering up over the building's edge. I could feel her eyes on me even then, a prickle in my side of uncomfortable feeling. Even so I didn't make any attempts to move away. That always seemed like a problem with me...

I didn't like the way Sara was looking at me, scooting closer beside me on the stone bench. It was the look of a hungry werewolf eyeing an enormous piece of fresh meat. Her scent changed, as well. She wanted something. At that moment I had a fair idea of what, but again—thanks to my stupid idealistic optimism that the majority of humans are decent—I just sat and hoped silently her mind was elsewhere. I remembered that night on the rooftop when I was seventeen...an eternity ago. History was repeating itself, and this time the roles were reversed.

"I know you still want me, Hunter. I have feelings about these things." She touched my shoulder, and tense beyond description I looked up at her. She indeed was beautiful, much more sophisticated than that girl I'd tried to kiss before. The urges were there, no doubt, but she wasn't talking about that. Sara meant marriage. Logic was also present, and stiffly I rose to my feet to take a few wary steps away towards the end of the bench.

"I'm sure," I said, "that you've told your five past husbands the same thing?" I wasn't blind to her plan; I had read the papers. The five husbands of Sara Whitson had all been rich old men, who had all either divorced her shortly afterwards or died one way or another. In addition to her family's assets the five divorce settlements and wills left her quite wealthy. How obvious did it have to be?

"You're different," she said, rising to follow me like a persistent hovering vulture. "When I read that you had married Adelle...I was shocked. I had always believed that you and I would be together some day." She was behind me now, speaking as fluidly as any politician. "And we would be perfect together, don't you see? We're both rich, successful, single," a small giggle that I could have clawed her for, "and equally good-looking. Why shouldn't we be?"

I think it was then that I realized what it had been that made her think she could accomplish this feat so blatantly. Hunter Blakeney was an idiot to the public. What better way for a greedy black widow to get her hands on another fortune? It was disgusting of course, but expected, I imagine. Well, if the ninny was what she wanted...

"Sink me, madame!" I reeled, turning to face her with as genuine a ninny face as could be. "Whatever happened to that demmed matter of love?"

"Love?" she laughed, as though the word was as childish and inane as the one who spoke it. "Love isn't a factor in the world today, Hunter. These days it's all about necessity. There's no such thing as true love."

A debatable point, but one I was afraid I would agree with. Either way I wasn't going to stand here and listen a moment longer, and feigned a yawn as I turned to leave. "Yes, well, to each their own, madame. Toodle pip!"

"Now Hunter Blakeney!" she pouted, her hands akimbo on her hips. I paused, turned back. She extended one arm, lithe and the color of ivory in the dark setting. "Aren't you even going to kiss your hostess in thanks?"

I knew I shouldn't have, as reason dictated, but then what would Hunter Blakeney have done? Slumping my shoulders I turned back, grin forsaken, and gently took her offered hand to lightly kiss the back of it with the customary bow.

As I said, our roles were reversed.

Sara didn't waste any time. Grabbing the folds of my yellow coat she jerked me back up to her level, throwing herself forward with her arms clamped around my neck. Stunned for a moment as her scent flooded my werecat senses, I didn't notice her kissing me, and when I finally did there was no relish. My arms shot out like twin battering rams and pushed her away, nearly knocking myself over in the process. Stumbling backwards, I back-pedaled until the stone bench was between us, and only then stopped for breath.

"That will be _quite_ enough, madame!"

Sara righted herself, straightening her green dress, and wasted no time closing the distance between us. Her eyes were blazing with that animalistic glow, that hunger. She moved quickly, to the other end of the bench, her maniacal grin like a child getting their hands around a full cookie jar.

"But you don't understand," she exasperated. "There's something about you, Hunter! You're not like other men. You're...you're feral. You're mysterious. You're not the fool you pretend to be. I have to know everything about you. I _must_ have you!"

Well, she was right about one thing. Any other day I would have been flattered red, but the way her voice said those words made it seem more like an obsession, as though she were mad. She very well may have been! For as she spoke the most outrageous thing happened.

Sara began chasing me! As though the situation weren't awkward enough, when she began to dart across the bench toward me I did the same the other way, leading us in an immature Ring Around the Rosy. Sara's voice was a delighted laugh. I had the faster reflexes, the more dexterous ability thanks to my feline self, but not even those were good enough to get away from her. I saw over Sara's shoulder the brightly-lit entrance of the room beyond where the masquerade continued, unaware of this fancy taking place outside. Abandoning this silly game, I bolted for it, knowing full well a crowded room was my only safety. But in doing so I had to dash past Sara, giving her the open opportunity to trip me.

And she did.

Her leg extended at the last possible second, and unable to dodge away in time my foot caught on it. An involuntary cry which very well could have been a caterwaul instead, only the reflexes of a cat saved my head from a brutal end on the concrete steps. My hands hit the ground first, and without the need for thought my shoulder tucked in, leading the rest of me into a cushioned roll against the steps rather than a hard smack. Fabric tore as my coat skidded on the hard concrete, but for the most part I managed to keep intact. Rolling once, I gathered myself in time enough to backflip-away the rest of the fall's momentum, and when I stopped I was in a cat-like crouch, one leg extended to the side and one arm behind me, hand flexed as though the claws were already there. Luckily, they weren't. My eyes were wide and intense as they glared up at the only other being on the terrace, her hand to her throat. Slowly, catching my breath that was lost in the scare, I stood back up, occupying myself with inspecting the coat's damage as Sara spoke in barely a whisper. Instead of an apology, she was astonished.

"Hunter, I...I never knew you could do that!"

"Surprise," I said grimly, in no mood now to put up the facade any longer. The coat was horribly battered down one side, the shoulder I'd landed on torn beyond repair. "Now if you're quite done..." No bow, no kiss, not even a nod, and I left a very dumbfounded Sara Whitson alone on the terrace. I could have stayed and perhaps purred her enough to where she would forget what she had seen, but I didn't want to linger in her presence a moment longer. Besides, purring had a tendency to provoke affection. Surely by tomorrow she would have told everyone that Hunter Blakeney could do backflips with the best of dancers, but I doubted many would believe her.

Several curious faces turned as I swept back angrily into the midst of the party (unable to get out of the complex any other direction), but I paid them no heed, holding the shoulder of my frock coat as I wept through them at a speedy power walk. Lord Greene pushed his way through, his eyes immediately finding the long tear.

"Blakeney, what happened?" he gasped.

"Nothing you need to fret yourself over, my good man," I said coldly, never slowing. "Carry on, I'll not be back tonight." Leaving him I headed directly downstairs and didn't stop my fierce pace until I was in the limousine and headed home.

I didn't know a second's relief until the heavy wooden door to my own penthouse closed behind me and I leaned back against it, exhaling a heavy sigh. What had just happened back there? Pressing my hands against the door to keep them steady I leaned my head back against the wood, closing my eyes. Sara was nothing to me any longer. She never had been. There were no women in my life, nor would there ever be. It was quite possibly the one thing I couldn't afford. The exception was Desere, but I couldn't ever bring myself to love her as I had Adelle. It wasn't just for the reason I had given my word not to lay a paw on her, but...frankly, it was quite obvious that neither of us wanted to be involved. She was an adopted daughter to me, and that was all.

These thoughts were quite uncalled for and probably the result of my over-extensive thinking, but nonetheless I had them. Opening my eyes again I left the support of the door to walk silently through the entranceway into the rest of the apartment house. Several of the lights were on, though the place itself was silent. It was almost eleven o'clock, and just as well, for I had promised Desere I would be back before midnight. The recent scents wafting through the air made it known she was still here, probably in her room, and not wanting to risk a confrontation with her I made swiftly across the main hall and up the stairs, and finally feeling the handles of the enormous double-glass doors that led onto the roof I threw them open wide and stepped out into the fresh, night air. The coldness was a shock of change from the warmth of inside, but a welcome one. Letting the doors close behind me I paced out into the roof's small garden, content to sort myself out here until the lights inside went off, indicating Desere's going to bed, or until midnight approached.

My penthouse was one known widely by the public and press: the size of a full two-story house, it rode the top floor of the apartment building striding the corner of Fifth Avenue and Broadway. It had been featured in several housing, well-to-do, and fashion magazines. This I found somewhat amusing. A mere change in the layout of my home, the color scheme, the placement or design of the furniture, could spark a flame in the fashion industry and utterly change people's concept of what style really was. (Sometimes I did this deliberately just to laugh at it.) But what I loved most about my 'apartment' was the garden spread out over the rooftop. Kept fresh by daily tending, I enjoyed relaxing among its flora year-round save for winter, in which case I preferred a seat before the fireplace anyway. Full-grown dogwoods and small pines lent their shade, scent and color on warm days, and on this night their serenity brought a peaceful harmony over the place. In the moonlight the place looked utterly poetic despite the chilly late autumn air.

I sat in the curved wooden bench in the midst of all the plants, flowers, and bushes, gazing into the silvery glade. This was perhaps my only touch of nature in Manhattan, the place where the cat in me felt most secure. All was quiet around me, the noisy cars from below dimmed by sheer height of the building. Its peace was broken only by the occasional ghostly wisp of a falling leaf. Even as midnight approached the two window-laden doors behind me were still brightly-lit, indicating Desere was still up and about. And despite my usual content of sitting in the garden, tonight I felt no peace.

Abandoning the low seat of the bench, I grunted and pushed myself to my feet, pacing through the garden's small winding gravel path. With my hands shoved deep into the pockets of the silk breeches and torn coat, I stared at the ground, listening to the crunch of the gravel under my shoes, crisp with frost. My mind was a jumble of random thoughts, fleeting and as wispy as the cold breeze that ruffled the loose end of my tied-back hair and bit at my scantily-covered shoulder. My thoughts kept wandering back to the masquerade, the dancing, the music, the laughter. I remembered the couples spread out over the floor, dressed in their jewels and fancy Renaissance and Gothic costumes, each sparkle and color illuminated by the enormous chandeliers. I tried not to think about Sara, and instead I remembered the faces and sweet scents of the many girls I had danced with...their perfume, their childlike smiles. I had danced with so many, only a few whose names I even knew. But they all knew me. Hunter Blakeney...the rich bachelor. The sudden cause of my discomfort hit me then: I was lonely.

And furthermore I was doing nothing but feeling sorry for myself as I paced this garden. The more I thought about it, the more pitiful I felt. But are not humans entitled to self-pity? No, not when there were matters larger than themselves to be thought of. Not when they're not even human. Hadn't I faced this problem after Bustopher's death?

"More like you're a rich b*****d," I couldn't help but growl out loud.

The sudden click of the window doors shutting brought my attention. Desere's thin silhouette stood against them, face hidden in shadow. Her hands were clasping her arms, hugging herself as was common but also probably for protection against the cold air. For a moment I caught my reflection in the windows behind her. In my tiger costume I was a gold statue in the darkness of the garden, battered and ruffled from the evening's activities. I didn't raise my head though I noticed her, and continued walking. I turned towards the set of steps leading through the wall and onto the patio, intending to cross over the divide on the roof to be alone once more.

"Hunter?"

I had one foot on the steps when her voice cut the silence. I went rigid, inwardly preparing to act the part of the rich nincompoop that I excelled at, and pretended to be startled at her voice. I stood tall to full height and turned to look at her. Then, with that consummate gallantry I used in addressing any woman:

"At your service, Madame!" I kept my foot on the step, hoping that my posture would suggest that I had no want to speak with her right now. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"It's a nice night," she said timidly. Was it? "Would you mind staying in the garden for a while longer? I'd like to sit..." Hastily she stepped back a pace, looking at the ground. "But, if you're busy..."

"Ah, quite the opposite, Madame," I grinned widely, taking my hands from my pockets to set one of my midsection and the other behind my back. "I was remaining out here to avoid troubling you in case your gracious self was involved in some private matter." I bowed ridiculously and turned again to leave.

"No," she said, taking a few hurried steps toward me. "I was waiting for you to come back. I thought you were still gone..."

This was now the most she had ever spoken to me. Yet I couldn't understand why I felt the compelling need to keep her away from me by playing the part of the fool. Ever since she had arrived I hadn't changed the way I acted around her as I did in public. She knew full-well I was a werecat, just as she was, and yet I treated her as any other human. Perhaps I was wanting to keep that distance between us, that divide that kept us from being as open as any normal father and daughter. Heaviside, I had never been a father. I never felt the desire for it. It was almost naturally expected of Jellicles to become parents, and though I knew why I didn't understand that, either. I shook my head, still grinning.

"Well, as you see, madame, I'm quite here." I let my eyes fall to the gown that she wore, and reeling in surprise that was half genuine and half forced I took a few tentative steps towards her. "Sink me! Is that all you're wearing in this dreadful weather? Really, miss, you should take better care of yourself." I stopped when I was an arm's length from her, gesturing her back inside. "Off you pop, now. A warm bed is just the thing."

For a moment in the dark night setting our eyes met. Hers, wide and green, and mine, cold and brown. In that one look I felt a physical blow. She was in agony, and I couldn't understand it. Her heat had long since passed for this cycle. In no way the her physical state any torture to herself, and yet her eyes conveyed to me such pain I couldn't comprehend. That moment lasted an eternity, and was broken just as quick.

"Alright," she said, barely a whisper audible above the wind, and her eyes fell, her pain withdrawn back inside her after failing to reach out and grab any kind of possible comfort.

I hated treating her like this. I hated myself for keeping that flat, lazy mask of Hunter Blakeney turned against her when we shared the same Jellicle blood. I kept up my shield, blocking the ache in my heart from showing as she turned away, clutching her shoulders, bowing her head, and retreated back into the penthouse. I realized only then the cause of her unhappiness...she was lonely, too. And I was doing nothing to help it.

"Goodnight, madame." My voice, the incompetent ninny I had trained it to sound, was like striking a blow to her emotions. It hurt her, my coldness. I could see it in her emerald eyes. Why could I not treat her as she was an equal to me, not a sacred goddess with whom I had no business sharing my inner thoughts and feelings? These things I knew she was thinking. And it hurt. Perhaps treating her with this cold detachment was for the best, but—_Heaviside_—it hurt! I turned away after hearing the click of the double doors, then waited. After I was sure she was safe in her room I retired to my own, where I laid down and wept until sleep took me.


	11. Munkustrap: WereCats 11

****

Munkustrap – Part Eleven

I had a dream that night. In it Adelle was in my arms again, and what we were doing I'm not at liberty to tell. But that wasn't important. What was so delightful about that dream was that it was as though she was really there. I could really feel her skin, smell her hair, hear her breathing, see her brilliant blue eyes. I was drowning with her flood over my Jellicle senses, and loving every moment. But there was some connection beyond that pleasure...some deeper link that bound us together. I could hear her thoughts reverberate in my head, know her feelings. In that fantasy world we were more in-tune than Coricopat and Tantomile could ever be, and it was so lifelike... Then I woke up.

Staring at the ceiling of what was once my father's room as the sunlight filtering in the windows grew ever brighter seemed the only way I could concentrate and draw myself back into that false reality. I was horribly stiff, still dressed in the messed masquerade outfit that I'd fallen asleep in. It was well past dawn when I finally rolled myself out of bed and dragged myself into the bathroom for a well-needed shower and shave. The clothes were dumped for good, and that combined with the grooming finally rid myself of the stench of Miss Whitson. Nothing was wrong until I had a good look at myself in the bathroom mirror.

It was then I noticed the small marks on my throat, barely visible. Leaning forward with intense concern, I examined them more closely. Yes, they were definitely of vampire origin. Panic swept over me immediately, thinking the worst. Yet as I stumbled hurriedly back to my room I forced myself to be rational, thinking things through. I hadn't felt weak when I awoke, therefore whatever Tick had the gall to slip in here sometime during the night hadn't the intention of killing me. Thank Heaviside... Closing the door securely, I paused, glaring over my room for any clue that would suggest intrusion. But vampires rarely leave any traces. With that doubt in mind I made for the window, shifting to werecat so my sense of smell would be much more efficient as I examined the window frame. What I smelled was indeed vampire, and yet the taint mixed there with it that confirmed the vampire's identity was one that made my blood run cold. Drawing back, I stared out at the morning sky, gray with clouds that suggested rain, and could scarcely believe it myself.

"Adelle..."

It was her. Never could I forget her human scent, no matter how altered. She had been here last night, one way or another. Why? What for? _The dream_... Back in human I threw open the door and dashed downstairs for the hallway that led to Desere's room. Pausing, staring in horror that her door was ajar, I pushed it open silently, preparing for the worst sight to meet my eyes.

But Desere was untouched. Still asleep on her bed against the wall, the soft light from her only window cast a dull gray light across her room, adding a silver touch of serenity that matched the innocence of her face. Closing the door I quietly turned away, heading back upstairs.

I didn't tell anyone about the attack. The marks themselves healed over quickly, small as they were, and though the entire Manhattan tribe of Jellicles knew my previous wife was a vampire, it seemed the better that they think she was gone forever. I had thought that myself, until now. Why would she come back now? Of all times? Why would Adelle come back at all if she meant not to kill me? There had to be something...but nothing else in the penthouse was touched.

But this was only the first event of vampiric origin in the city. Following within the next week were several genocidal attacks on both werewolves and humans. An apartment complex was burnt to the ground, killing all of its residents. Nearly twenty bodies were found sprawled in an alleyway bloodbath, an appalling sight to any weak stomach, and were written off by the authorities as some kind of gang-cult orgy gone wrong. I knew different. Exploring the scene on all fours, the scent of musky werewolf was obvious as daylight. Yet the Jellicles remained untouched. Pure luck, I reasoned. But I was worried. We were probably the next target.

The worry I found out was well-founded. It was early fall, and with the change in season came a change over the island. A change, so slight none of the humans probably noticed it, that swept over the island like a dark chemical cloud that came with the changing color of the leaves, the cold weather. It was so slight, so secretive, that even I didn't notice to begin with. It was an energy, the pulse of a beating heart that sent out its silent, electrical waves over the island. First it began with small twinges in my tail and whiskers when I shifted, then as it grew in intensity I could begin to feel it in other forms. Like a current in the air...it couldn't be seen or heard or smelled...it could be touched.

None of us Jellicles thought about it much at first. In fact, as much as I could tell it put the others on edge and myself as well, we seemed reluctant to bring it up. We all knew the other werecats could feel it. It was that energy forming over the island that seemed to bind us together. It was very strange, this flow of energy. Late evening was when it seemed it was at its strongest. An unheard buzz rang in our feline ears. I would find myself shifting and running the streets of Manhattan for no reason, chasing rats and shadows as natural as any feline without a question in my mind as to why. I would encounter other Jellicles or normal cats in the streets, fight them or run with them without having exchanged a vocal word. Even Tugger and Bombalurina. I encountered them in an alley one evening picking at a discarded fish. Our eyes met, our tails flicked, but not a word was spoken for us to communicate. Then we did things...

Things...this sounds so strange. Whether by myself or in the company of other Jellicles we would wander the city doing...things. I can't think of a better way to describe it. It was as though the entire Manhattan population was hypnotized, under the control of some force above us all that commanded us in feline form to go out and do these actions that were not our own. But these things that we did...they were so pointless, yet I suppose we as a whole felt the compelling need to do them. Simple things like knocking shut a propped open window, tipping over a trashcan, following someone on a bicycle as they wheeled their way home. Simple things like that we did evening after evening when this dull uncaring veil was forced over our eyes, blinding us to whatever motive was behind these actions and their purpose. As I sit here now I am sure that's what it was: that we were all under some influence of vampire power. It would certainly explain what happened next.

These things went on for a little over a week. It all ended one overcast day when it was getting towards evening. That same energy was still surrounding the island, that evening stronger than ever. I was pacing my penthouse restlessly, having sent Desere over to Gwyneth's comfort when she was feeling that same energy. It frightened her, and it was beginning to frighten me. What if we _were_ under vampire influence? Not a Jellicle in Manhattan—save for Macavity, who nobody had seen trace of at all—hadn't been unaffected by that week-long glaze that seemed to hinder us in normal living. The thought that any vampire strong and powerful enough to do such a thing was here in Manhattan and exercising those powers sent my thoughts whirling to the worst conclusions. Why? What was going on? The energy that evening was so intense I couldn't escape it. I waited for sundown, when the vampires would rise and usually that glaze would take over us Jellicles and drive me down to the street on all fours, but that evening the hypnotic whatever it may have been never came. There was only that energy. Shifting to full werecat whose senses brought the energy to its peak perception, I went out onto the balcony.

It was a wonder that a stream of humans still walked the streets of Manhattan, oblivious to this energy that trembled the ground and filled the air when it was all so plain to me. Even now the effects of that energy could be seen. Humans might have explained it as a trick of the sunset, but as I stood on that balcony with my feline eyes peering out into the city horizon I knew that something was going to happen tonight. That energy, which had first been detected a week or so ago and had wrapped its powerful clutches around our werecat minds, was saturating the island. If I walked on the street below my paws could feel the ground practically trembling with that energy. It would feel as though the streets were alive, pulsing with this electricity that tingled my paws. If I extended my hand out into the air, as I did now, I could feel it on the wind. Those tiny waves of electricity moves and shifted their strings as I moved my black-furred hand through them in the air, their choking strands ready to stifle the entire island. Even here, on the top floor of this penthouse apartment building, my ears and tail tip were quivering with that energy. Something was going to happen.

Now I could see it. The light of the sunset, they might have said, but no trick of Mother Nature or pollution could possibly make the previously dull gray clouds the color as I viewed them now. Beautiful in a savage kind of way, the clouds were sulfur yellow, tinged in greens and reds that swirled like soup around the taller buildings of the island. They were thinner than any cloud I'd ever seen, lower and moving as quick as snake tongues over the city though there was barely any wind. Nothing was natural about these clouds. The sun had gone down now, and the clouds were literally glowing. How could these humans not notice it?! The energy in the air was ready to drive me mad. It was as though the island would shatter like a mirror at any moment: it was being filled to excess with this energy and couldn't hold any more. I braced myself against the stone edge of the balcony as though expecting some type of explosion. But nothing came. Not the hypnotic glaze. Not any explosion. Only that maddening energy.

Whatever it was, there was no doubt in my mind it was caused by vampires. Something else, perhaps that same hypnotic suggestion, told me that tonight it would all end.

I tried to sleep that night and couldn't. Admittedly, the entire city never goes completely dark enough at night, but one can sleep through that. But now, even with the curtains drawn, that putrid yellowish light from the clouds weaseled its way inside, reminding me of that energy that was somewhat dulled in my human form outside. I tossed and turned, a jumble of thoughts in my head. What was going to happen? I worried, I thought, I fantasized, but I couldn't sleep.

Then it all broke. Like a strained and taut wire suddenly cut, the energy snapped. It was like a physical blow in the face, that break: so sudden and so sharp. Bolting out of bed I had barely enough time to shift to werecat before I was out on the balcony again. I looked. I listened. Nothing. The clouds were gone, nothing overhead by the sparse wispy trails of smoke from the city and the few stars able to twinkle through. The city all around was...normal. The lights flickered in Times Square. The police sirens wailed in the distance. The air was cool and calm, carrying only the scents of the city in its breeze. No energy. No tension. Only the feeling of release.

What could I make of it? Something had happened in the past week that was entirely above me, above the Jellicles. Yet the city remained unchanged by the phenomenon, the humans oblivious. Only its memory remained. It's memory... Suddenly very tired, sleep came easily as I went back inside.

What broke with the energy was our silence. The next day I spent on all fours patrolling the island, checking in with other cats on their conditions and trying to find even a scrap of evidence as to what had happened. Then again, I knew not what to look for. But radically changed from the previous week were all of us Jellicles, who wanted nothing more than to mill over and theorize about what had gone on. None of us could even fathom the truth.

I met up with Alonzo in Central Park at about midday. Curled in the gnarly roots of an old tree beside a small pond, he was dozing with his eyes closed, tail flicking slowly, as I circled to sit beside him. I had a particular liking for Alonzo that had developed over some time. He was a quiet cat who didn't like to talk about himself much, responsible and mature to where he would throw in a paw wherever it was needed. I had lost track of his age some time ago, and yet it seemed he never really did grow any older. His mottled brown-shaded and black fur coat was as thick and ruffled as ever, its dirtiness a testament to the streetlife he insisted upon leading.

"Desere's back at yer place," he rumbled after a moment when I'd set about giving my coat a good lick. "Said she thinks everything's calmed down a bit."

"Good cat," I commended to her, perhaps a tad sarcastically said but genuinely meant. "She didn't happen to say exactly what has calmed down?"

Alonzo shook his head, finally opening his gold-slitted eyes to glance at the still water of the pond. "No one knows, Strap. Might as well quit worryin' about it. It's over."

"I'm not going to be content with ignorance if there's a chance at gaining any knowledge," I replied simply enough. "What if it happens again? Did you see the way we were all acting?"

Another nod. Strange, from a cat. "Of course I did. I was doin' it, too. Like we were all zoned out and couldn't think straight."

"Exactly. If a vampire can do that, where does it leave us? What's to stop them from annihilating us entirely?"

"They're too smart t'do that."

"What?" I snapped my attention up to him. I didn't like the tone in his voice. Not at all. He spoke like he knew something I didn't, and if there was one thing I could never be content with it was not knowing. "What do you mean by that?"

"You don't think Ticks are above laws?"

"I would assume that they're powerful enough to ignore them."

"Think again, Stripes. You know what happens when ya A-S-S-U-M-E." He sighed, readjusting his paws from where they were folded under him, and stared aloofly off into the pond until he glanced back, catching my curious and somewhat angry glare. He rolled his eyes and went on. "Think about it fer a second. Mother Nature keeps balances in her population, right? The whole predator-prey relationships. Equilibrium. Natural selection. It's the same way with us, Strap. Ya dunno what consequences might come up if vampires jus' wiped all the shapeshifters off the face o' the earth."

I was almost afraid to ask: "What kind of consequences?"

"Bad ones."

"Then if they know better, what was the Great War all about?"

"A mistake. But a necessary one. Someone had t' establish their dominance over the others. It wasn't supposed t' cause a near extinction."

"How do you know all this?"

He wouldn't answer that one. Nor would he ever. I could have remained there and prodded him for information all day and not have received it. Stubborn ratlover. I wanted to know what he was talking about and how he had gained that bit of information that no one else seemed to know. But try as I might, he endured my badgering for approximately ten more minutes before he left. I had the right, didn't I? Responsible over the welfare of the other Jellicles, didn't that give me the right to know what they knew? Double-checking myself, it sounded childish that I should try to justify my want to know that way, and finally I abandoned the idea, turned out once again to complete my patrol before heading home.

It was dark by then, night having fallen over Manhattan hours before I even turned my nose in the direction of home. I wanted it that way. After the patrol that consisted mainly of a four-legged scout around the borders of my territory, checking the markings I left there every other day as a signal post, it was obvious to me that nothing had been disturbed along the boundaries. The usual scents of vampires and werewolves that came and went as routine as daylight were present, nothing worth worrying over. But it was the darkness I wanted to wait for. I wanted to see what would come about once the sun was down, my mind filled with questions that I thought could be answered if I spied on the local vampire population.

I guess I should take the time now to explain exactly what was my territory in Manhattan. Frankly, it was almost the entire island. Beginning at the western tip, it covered all of Manhattan Island up to the far eastern end of Central Park, except only the small quarter portion beyond 14th Avenue and Broadway that belonged to Macavity. It was a large spanse to say the least, large enough to suit the werecats who inhabited it and yet small enough to keep a good watchful eye over. It was a homely place, and I intended to keep it that way. In terms of foreign policy I was not quite what one might call an expansionist.

From what I heard, Admetus had been the one who was the real boundary-pusher. Whatever Jellicles or other creatures had inhabited this island in the time before I knew what I truly was Admetus had fought against to expand the small bit of territory that Jellicles possessed then, no bigger than Macavity's was now. He must have succeeded, considering the size of it. Gus from what I saw cared as much about new territory as I did. We all had what we needed in this spanse, and unless someone threatened to take it I saw no reason to risk lives any more than I had to going out to expand the boundaries.

The span beyond that far eastern border I knew not who held claim over it. As far as I knew, no Jellicles inhabited that area at all. But seeing as I had enough range to keep an eye on already, I didn't care much. Let the Dogs have it, if they wanted. The only rival for territory, which was really an understatement, since it seemed he didn't strive to gain any territory, either, was Macavity. That small quarter of the island along the borders of 14th Avenue and Broadway were his. Not that there was much down there…a few docks and rubbish heaps, perhaps, combined with an excellent population of Dogs and Ticks and the dregs of humanity, but for Macavity that seemed a fitting place to sleep at night. Thus far Macavity had not tried to push his borders over mine, and should that event ever come up…well, with any luck it wouldn't. I wasn't exactly sure if I could stand up to such a creature as was presented to me that night I rescued Desere. Now that I come to think of it, Macavity had his own way of letting me know that little outing did not please him. Two nights after I became Jellicle Leader, that same rotten old hotel building I'd gone into burned down. Carelessness, was the report I read. Some teenager forgot to put out their cigarette once they tossed it on the ground. I knew better.

I still wasn't quite sure what to make of Macavity. Yes, he'd been a fearsome sight that night that seemed so long ago, but putting that aside, what other reasons had I to fear him? A bunch of stories that couldn't be proved? He had done little to make himself known before the incident with Desere, and even afterwards, as angry as I would imagine him to be, nothing came of it. There were no rage-driven attacks on the other Jellicles from him, no threats, not even a show of his face to me or any other on my territory. Sometimes I wondered if that same energy that had engulfed us all had affected him, too. I couldn't be sure. Where was I? Oh yes...

I wanted to have a peek at the local vampires to see if they had any reaction to the mysterious energy that had just recently broken. I knew their dens...their putrid age-old scents tainted any place they walked, and when a group of them gathered at the sleazy bars or hotels that they seemed to enjoy—and which I could attest to—the stench was more than enough to keep a Jellicle away. It was a dangerous thing to attempt at all, going directly for their hangouts, but I knew not what else to do.

But the danger was gone. Not even humans inhabited the bars and hotels tonight. It was all black, deserted, not even their scent freshly present. Any smart cat would have turned away then and there, but curiosity had already taken its hold. Shifting up to werecat form, confident that the bleak darkness would hide me sufficiently, I stalked across the street to the trash-laden sidewalk that stretched out, uneven and broken, before the line of bars. Nothing. No music played from within the buildings. No neon lights flickered in the windows. I stalked carefully over the crumpled papers and broken glass the length of the street, seeing, smelling, hearing nothing. Whatever energy had swept over the island that week or so ago, it had passed through here and left its distinct mark. The place was like a graveyard.

Shivering from some inner chill, I was ready to leave the place, but the place wasn't done with me. The feeling that I was being watched came suddenly, stopping in my tracks to slowly glance at the desertedness around me. Apparently the place wasn't quite deserted... I knew that whatever vampire had his sights set on me was doing it deliberately, for a vampire could be watching someone without their knowledge. This one was toying with me. I did the only thing I knew: began backing away, slowly, hoping to get out of the shadows and back into the more well-lit streets. As though that would give any protection.

I hadn't but stepped out into the street and began to turn when something, some sweep of black that was nothing more than a shadow itself, dove from nowhere, slamming into my back with the force of a very real and very solid creature. _Blasted Ticks_. Snarling as I was pitched forward, I had already twisted to catch myself, but the vampire wouldn't have it. In a series of movements that were too quick for me to follow or even see, the shadow had me chest-down on the asphalt street, both arms pinned behind me with a strength that surpassed mine, and the feeling of a cold steel blade across the back of my neck.

"Stop struggling if you wish to live."

I stopped struggling.

From the angle with which my face was shoved into the ground, a sideways glance behind me revealed only that same shadow looming there, its limbs like swirling tentacles with an iron grip. A low chuckle that sounded most definitely human left only the conclusion that my attacker was not only a vampire…but a powerful one, as well. As my struggling ceased the painful hold he had on my arms and the blade's pressure both lightened, allowing me at least enough room to breathe.

"Listen, but don't speak, cat," the voice, cold as death and slithery as a reptile, hissed. _Parasite_… "You'll return here this time tomorrow night, alone, unarmed, and be willing to negotiate some important matters if you want to spare your kind the tragedies that have taken place thus far."

There was a pause then, silence, in which the words sunk in, before the faceless Tick released me with a shove and vanished back the way he'd came. Whirling, one hand clamped against the sting on my neck, I glared up into the darkness, trying to catch some parting glimpse of the rotting corpse. But nothing was there. In the darkness all I could see was the empty street and buildings. In the distance, though, unmistakable as a Tick's stench, was a laugh from the same Heaviside-forsaken creature. Mocking.

What else could I do? The next night I returned. Alone. Unarmed. Dressed as I would with any business meeting, the dark blue overcoat was a haughty protection against the cold night as well as sufficient to cover the forever fur I wore beneath it. I wanted to bring my cane, just as a reassurance with the silver blade concealed inside it in the case that things got rough, but for some reason unknown I left it behind, doffing my hat to head out into the city just as the sun fell. Desere hadn't shown herself much in the day between encounters, though even if she had I would not have noticed. I slept. It was a good thing, too, because I hadn't given myself the opportunity to think about what I might be walking into. A trap. An ambush. I didn't think about it, therefore no doubts had time to take root in my head and draw any nervousness as I walked slowly but surely towards that distant part of the city. That might have been a good thing...nervousness was one of the easiest scents to detect from any being.

The place had not changed once I arrived. Still dark, silent, and still, not a trace of vampire was to be found. I couldn't be sure what I expected. As eager and impatient as I was I paced the sidewalk along the bars, keeping all senses fully aware in any case an ambush was planned. That idea didn't seem likely, though. Nor was it probably. If the Tick had wanted to kill me, it would have been easy enough last night. But then again, when did vampires care about logic? I laughed a little at that.

"Odd place to find something humorous, don't you think?"

I snapped my attention behind me, my body whirling as it followed and I found my vampire. He was standing there, totally at ease with the world and rightfully so, clad in the classic black trenchcoat and dark brown hair drawn back over his shoulders. Your typical Anne Rice image. But those eyes...I shuddered. I never could get over the way those eyes were so feral, so unnatural the way they burned and stared.

"I always thought it was a virtue to find the lighter side of things in life, wot?" I replied intentionally in my trained ninny voice, more to hide my quiver than anything. Surprisingly enough, he smiled, the tips of his canine fangs gleaming over his pale lips. Purposefully. Vampires can contract their fangs when not in use. I ran my tongue over my own flat teeth, then using the ability I'd honed to a fine skill shifted just enough to feel the daggers of my own fangs. It was a small comfort.

"I do enjoy your inane formalities, Hunter," he said in a voice as smooth as silk. "But let's not waste precious time. I imagine you have questions."

"One could say that," I nodded, not moving from where I stood on the sidewalk. The vampire stood in the middle of the street, buried up to nearly his waist in the shadows of night. Neither of us seemed any more eager than the other to close the distance between us. But at the same time, even more strangely, there was no menace. I had mentally prepared myself before his arrival to fight. I had wanted to fight, kill whatever vampire showed his face...especially if it turned out being that same one who had taken Adelle. But no, there was something drastically different about the Tick who stood before me now from the one who had stolen my wife what seemed ages ago. Not just appearances...there was a wisdom around this one, some sort of timeless majesty that in the other was shallow and plain. He must have been ancient.

"Who are you?"

The vampire glanced to the ground at my blunt question, seeming disappointed that I would start with such a shallow topic. But his face never changed. "My name is...of little consequence here. I know you, Hunter Blakeney, leader of the Jellicles. I've decided to meet with you here to discuss a matter of vast importance."

If I had a tail it would have been lashing right now. "So, discuss away, old man. We can't be here all night."

He nodded once, then began. "What I want to say first is that the energy, as you call it, that had overtaken Manhattan recently was of my doing. It was deliberate, and I must also apologize for the affect it had on your kind."

"If you don't mind, what exactly was that whole episode about?"

"It was a coming of age, Jellicle. I had come to replace the Lord of the vampires here, a young and reckless fledgling who had no idea what he was doing, but in order to do so I had to gather the power necessary. That was the energy you felt. In our own way we were...fighting. I triumphed, as you can see, but during the course of the battle I'm afraid you and your kind were caught up as pawns in the struggle, carrying out our wills. None of you were harmed, I hope?"

"I don't think so," I confessed, "though I do thank you bloodsuckers for having the decency enough to leave us out of your power struggle."

He paid no heed to my insult, probably for the better. "Indeed. I took the liberty of killing off most of the vampire population here, as you can see. It was no loss. They were naught but street rabble. I doubt you will find reason to complain."

My turn to grin. "Not at all." Despite the friendly tones, I wasn't about to get on friendly terms with this parasite. He wanted something. I could smell it. And if he spoke true and was the new Vampire Lord of Manhattan—an overstating title, really...all it meant was that he was overseer of the island's vampire population—he had the power to get it. All I could do was pray to Heaviside and hope whatever his request it would be a simple one. I had never met with the previous Lord which apparently had been overthrown in the Ticks' private wars, but as far as relations went we Jellicles and the vampires were not on easy terms. Perhaps this could prove a remedy.

"I want you to know, Hunter," the vampire inevitably went on. "That I have no desire or intention of harming any of your werecat kind so long as you do not harm me or those under my protection."

"Sounds reasonable."

"It should. Considering the notion that our territories will be overlapping from now on, I thought you might consider the benefits of allowing me to provide whatever protection you or your kind need for my reign here."

As gorgeous as it sounded, I wasn't fooled. "In return for...?"

The vampire smiled, disturbing in its own horrific way. "In return for a monthly donation of blood from one of your kind. That is all I ask."

Donation? "From whom?" I had supposed it would be me, the thought of which I didn't relish, but at the mention of his proposed "cow" I would have rather offered myself.

"There is a young boy of your kind, a foreigner who I believe has just arrived. You should know him. I believe his name would be Quaxo."

Yes, I knew him. Quaxo, a young Jellicle tom kitten as mysterious as his past, had indeed migrated to our Manhattan Tribe only a month or two ago from Europe. Indeed, as strange and mysterious a werecat as he was, he was only a boy. An innocent youth who even in his eccentricity showed a loyalty to this tribe that surpassed his years, and an innocence in his gentle ways that derived such pity from me at the very thought of what this Tick was proposing...

"No."

"I've already discussed it with the young Jellicle, Hunter. He has agreed."

"I don't, nor will I ever. Take me if you like, but not Quaxo. He's far too young—"

"You couldn't possibly understand my motives for this decision, cat. Do not try."

"Heaviside d**n me if I won't," I snarled, forgetting formalities as I rushed forward angrily to stand not an arm's length from him. "What could you possibly want with Alex?"

"Alex is like no other being I've encountered over my time, Jellicle. I want him. He has agreed to the small sacrifice of blood every month in return for your kind's safety. I do not want to harm him. Pity's sake, that's the last thing I want. All that is needed is your consent, Hunter, and everything shall be fine."

Fine? I consent to this and perhaps gain the safety of the tribe, but at what cost? Condemning the life of one who shared that same feline blood who was still young and had a full life ahead of him to this vampire's clutches? Heaviside knew what the Tick would do to Quaxo once he'd had his fill of blood. It wouldn't be anything good, or pleasant. And what of Quaxo? Even a pint of blood every month would be sufficient to give this vampire control over him. Where would that lead? If the Tick had been using any influence on me thus far the decision would have been an easy debate...he would manipulate my very thoughts until I saw the entire logic behind his request and didn't question it. But he didn't. Morally correct, perhaps, it didn't make things any easier. Then again, did I expect them to be?

"I'd rather discuss it with Quaxo myself," I growled.

"You will have every opportunity to after tonight. I have told you: he has already agreed. Give your consent now and you may meet with Quaxo about it anytime you please. I have no reason to deceive you, Hunter. This is, however, the only time I will offer you this chance."

"How do I know you'll keep your word?" I snapped. I was beginning to hate myself for even considering it.

"Simple," the Tick shrugged. "You don't. But then again, what choice do you have?"

He was right, of course, and I hated it. But if this Tick had wanted to kill me or all of the Jellicles he would have been more than capable to do so already. That alone was the only basis that I could establish his sincerity on. I let my face fall in some hope to hide the inner conflict raging in my mind, but nothing could be hidden from the Tick. He chuckled evilly.

"It really is a simple decision, Hunter."

I looked up sharply, feeling my muscles tense and ready to shift, but barely had the time to react before he charge me in a flash of back, fangs bared in a viscous snarl.

I threw up my arms, expecting the impact of his grip that would render me powerless as he sank his fangs into my throat. But the impact never came. Lowering my feeble defense, I glared back at the vampire, but he remained in the exact same position, that cool leaning stance, in his hand a struggling black street rat that didn't struggle for very long before he drank it dry. Flinging the carcass away, he wiped his mouth with the handkerchief from his pocket, uncaring as could be.

"That could very well have been you," he said darkly, and I believed him. While I was still dumbly recovering my dignity he turned his feral eyes down the street, sensing something I couldn't, and said distractedly: "As you said, cat, we can't linger here all night. Give me your answer."

I let my shoulders sag, and regretting nothing else in my life as much as I did in that moment when I said solidly: "I'll agree."

A moment of silence followed, during which I imagined the vampire was savoring his victory. I kept my eyes lowered, avoiding the risk of losing my temper if I caught sight of the smirk I imagined to be playing across his pale features. _Sonofa_...

"Good cat," he purred, his footsteps swallowed in silence as he began to turn away. "You made the right choice."

I turned away as well, wishing I was half as certain. "I'll be the judge of that, Tick."

"I'll give regards to your wife."

I whirled, ready to attack. Vampire or no vampire. But he was already gone.

It is fairly safe to assume that as I walked home after that encounter I was one of the more miserable beings on the island. With the sun's rays just peeking over the uneven Manhattan horizon, I dragged myself back to the penthouse apartment building, trying to decide whether the choice had been the right one. On one hand I'd almost assured for certain the safety of the Jellicles in Manhattan from outside influence, from vampires, from werewolves, possibly Macavity, yet on the other paw the sinking feeling of Quaxo's fate—whatever it may be—drowned whatever contentment might be derived from that. Does the good of the many outweigh the good of the one? In the grand scheme of things it probably was, yet in the daily routine of survival the opposite was true. Perhaps no one would have to know what I'd done. I wouldn't have to justify myself then. To the Jellicles...to myself...

I felt like werewolf filth. No...lower, if that's possible.

What I hated most of all was the feeling of helplessness. Responsible for the lives of the Jellicle tribe in Manhattan, and I could not even stand up to one vampire without sacrificing one. It should have been myself if anyone was going to sacrifice anything. I had a responsibility. I had a duty. Even if Quaxo had agreed to it, what right had I to let it go without a fight? As I reached the building and began the long climb up to the top floor on the outside fire escape, I began wishing I could go back to that spot and find that vampire and thrash the living flatulence out of him. What I would give just for that one chance...even for a few moments...

Desere was still asleep when I reached the apartment, the sun already peeking into the city. My mind and heart ached much more than my body. But I waited until after I'd checked in on Desere, still asleep, before retiring to my own room where I think I drowned my sorrows in alcohol until I passed out. I can't quite remember.

I woke suddenly much later, the sound of rain pattering away on the windows. It was difficult to tell what time it was, late or early. Thinking nothing of it, I didn't lift my head or even move because of the dull ache there, and closed my eyes again. Then I realized I wasn't alone.

"Who's there?" I growled, like a frightened child, and shot up ramrod straight in bed. My head swam. In the flickering darkness my feline-sensed eyes could pick up a faint outline in the farthest corner: a slim form in white. "Desere?"

"I couldn't sleep," her timid voice said. It could have been drowned out by the rain. I relaxed, leaning back against the pillows, gesturing her closer. Heaviside, what time was it? I must have slept all day.

"It's alright," I said, making room as she gently sat on the bed's edge. Was it? "Do you want to sleep here? I can settle in the corner chair if you'd—" But I didn't get to finish. A low rumble of thunder in the distance vibrated the foundation, and in the flash of lightening that followed I saw the panic on Desere's face as she darted forward, crawling onto the bed and curling tightly to my middle, her breath ragged pants.

"I don't like storms," she whimpered. Her voice was on the edge of crying. Gently I put my own arms back around her, feeling her tight grip constricting me loosen a little, and stroked her dark hair. With a gentle rock I told her in a whisper everything was alright, that she needn't be afraid. If the situation hadn't been so grave I would have found it humorous: a fourteen-year-old girl with the mortal fears of when I was six. But then I didn't blame her paranoia. Perhaps in that dizzying hangover with the problems of last night just now returning to my consciousness, I could relate with her.

I pulled the covers up and over Desere as she crawled in with me, taking care to leave her plenty of room to settle. Needless to say I was a little hesitant in such a position. (I currently wasn't clad in very much.) But her need was for that of comfort, and I was the only other source of support. I myself crawled out and lay on top of the covers, knowing full well I couldn't trust myself any other way, and even more with the knowledge of Desere's paranoia around men. It was a wonder she was here at all. I expected her to hug the pillows and lay with her back to me, and again I was surprised. She curled up against the warmth of my chest and the spot where I'd been lying, shivering until I again put my arms over her shoulders. Her face turned down into the blankets, I gazed over her head to the window, thinking.

I had always thought of the world as absolute chaos...nothing was planned or destined to happen. If a country was suddenly attacked, and a war was started, or in this case: a proposition made that could offer the best advantages at a serious price, it was merely the greater and luckier country that would win. The world as I viewed it was ruled by logic (sometimes...) and if something happened to me it was the result of something someone else did. Sometimes I could look down into the streets of Manhattan and watch the countless number of people go by. I would be amazed by the thought that each and every person down there had their own life, their own personality, their own thoughts and conversations as they walked, their own places to go, and yet no two were identical. I found it amazing to contemplate that these vessels of unique thought and personality filled the world, and that each and every one of them left their imprint behind. Whether it be small or large...

Somehow this train of thought would land me at the feet of the Jellicles. Even if we existed in secret, what did we leave behind for the world? Children? What was our purpose? Animals evolved in the wild in order to survive, so what had caused us Jellicles to develop? Was it just a random mutation? Was it spiritual? Or was it that we branched off from either the feline or human genus millions of years ago to adapt our own ways? I remember questioning these things before. Bustopher had told me that these were just common fancies that everyone wished they knew. If they were common, then, why did I think their answers were so important?

I don't know what any of this had to do with Desere or why I was thinking these things now—perhaps it was just something to do while I waited for her to fall asleep—but these thoughts and similar ones filled my mind until an hour had passed and Desere had finally drifted off among the distant rumblings of thunder and lightening outside. Listening to the patter of rain, I rolled over to give Desere ample room and eventually dozed off myself.

The next morning I woke in the same position, listening to Desere's breathing behind me. Strange it seemed, that I'd never heard a sound quite like that. It was a deep, feminine, contented breathing entirely rhythmic in its pace. Almost like a purr. A relaxing sound, to be sure, I almost didn't want to get up and go downstairs. But the sun was already rising, and in some weird combination of sleep and blessed mercy the thought of Quaxo didn't cross my mind that morning, so very carefully to not disturb the girl, I slipped out, pulled on my robe, and went downstairs.

There was some strange peace in the silence of the vast apartment that morning. Taking into consideration I'd slept for nearly two straight days it's a small wonder I wasn't in the same depression as after the encounter with the Vampire Lord. A warm shower seemed in order, an order that was quickly carried out and worked wonders on the after-effects of the drink. Then as with most mornings, I settled down at the table with a glass of milk to check the status of my investments in the newspaper.

That alone was probably the hardest thing about being a werecat: getting over my humanity. Imagine it...for seventeen years someone is brought up acting certain ways, believing certain things, viewing society from a certain point, when suddenly they have the rug pulled from under their feet and are thrust into a world that seemed only fantasy before. I know I've ranted about this previously, but the truth of the matter is that it's been happening to werecats I suppose for centuries, and still has not lessened in its emotional intensity. I can think of nothing else that is as life-altering as a Jellicle learning the truth after that first change. And those first few years afterwards...Heaviside, those years are hard.

But I don't believe that I'll ever completely feel totally like a werecat. I know I'm not human. I never was and I never will be, but I'd been brought up feeling human, and that feeling has remained even after finding out who I truly was. I mean, some old habits, human habits, I kept up with a routine. Like grooming. I didn't realize it right away, but I discovered that if I shifted down to cat size and gave my coat a decent grooming with that sandpaper tongue, when I shifted back to human it would look as though I'd just showered. But I still kept up those human habits, realizing eventually that I was a werecat and would never be a "normal" human again, but at least I could feel a little like one.

Pointless observations, I know. I couldn't help but notice them.

Desere came down about twenty minutes later. Still clad in her silky white nightgown, she went first to her downstairs room to recover the woolly green bathrobe she insisted on wearing at all times around the house before joining me in the study. It was a slow process, but it was obvious that Desere was steadily coming out of her shell, learning to trust and feel at ease around me even if she might never totally open up. I was delighted to find she had an avid interest in the same Jellicle history as I did and offered her full use of the library I'd been collected on the subject thus far. She dove headlong into those books, sometimes sitting curled up in one of the large cushioned chairs in the den to pour over page after page of the old transcripts. She could read well enough to get by, though sometimes I had to help her. That morning was our usual scene: her sitting in one of the chairs by the fireplace with a book, me at the desk across the room. There was a comfort in that, too. It felt like a home.

But the contentment was short-lived.

"Who's Adelle?" she asked from nowhere. Looking up sharply, I felt myself stiffen as I lowered the paper.

"Beg pardon?" More reaction than intelligence.

"Last night," she said softly, gently turning the mug of her hot chocolate balanced on the chair's arm. "After you went to sleep, you kept saying a name. It sounded like Adelle."

Had I? I turned my eyes to the side, clenching my jaw, trying to think of a proper excuse. "Adelle...was...an old acquaintance."

"Did you love her?" she went on. When I didn't answer: "You said you did last night."

"Ladies shouldn't ask questions like that, Desere," I growled, lifting the paper again to hide my face behind it. I had somehow been able to manage my thought pattern over time into not thinking about Adelle very often, and to have her constantly brought back into my life one way or another was painful, but I must confess: inevitable. I remember the only decent picture I ever kept of her was a photo portrait of the two of us on our wedding day set inside the very desk I sat at now. After what had happened, though, I resolutely tossed it to the bottom of the deepest drawer I could find and left it. It was still there. My eyes wandered down to it as my thoughts ventured back, just the knowledge of its presence drawing me like a siren. But I didn't want to look at it.

Desere fell quiet after that, paging through her book, the sound of the rustling pages magnified in the room's quiet which suddenly seemed stifling. Normally the sounds of the city streets below filtered up on still mornings like this, but rather than bear the quiet I turned the radio on, setting it to play that soft, classical music I loved. That started me thinking about the show again.

It was for all in the world complete. I doubted seriously that a musical about singing and dancing cats would go over well with the general human public...let alone what the werewolves or vampires would think about it, but it was worth a shot. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. The music and songs were entirely put together, the set and characters set in their rigid guidelines, now all that remained was to find someone to produce it. That aspect I left up to Gus. To tell the entire truth, I was not that eager to see it set off so soon. As put together as the entire production was, and as surely I felt that it could work, I couldn't help but have the nagging voice in the back of my consciousness that said something was missing. Some vital aspect that I had missed was desperately needed. After a good deal of contemplating over time I think I discovered what it was. _Memory_. That song that seemed so frequent in my life one way or another I had not yet worked into the show. It didn't seem right if I did. I can't fully explain my reasonings, other than the concerns that the one Jellicle song that seemed so precious to my kind was too beautiful to be sold, too majestic in its meaning to have any plot centered around it or any one character sing it eight times a week. And which character could do it? As much as I even tried to fit some plot around that one beautiful song, nothing seemed to fit. I abandoned the idea officially, but in my mind I still worked over the concept, trying to find a way...

Desere brought me back to myself a timeless while later when she brought the book she held up to my desk, displaying the open face pages before me and gesturing to a certain picture.

"Who's that?" she whispered, for her voice always sounded like a whisper, as her dark hand pointed to a withered photograph print of a recreated statue of Greek origin.

"That's Demeter," I said gently. "The Greek and Roman goddess of the harvest and the seasons."

"She looks so sad..."

I nodded, detecting a distinct note of sorrow in the girl's voice but unable to see it in her face, her green eyes turned as they were down at the book. Actually I saw nothing at all sad in the white marble face of the statue, only that blank sculpted expression that seemed universal in that kind of art. But if Desere saw sadness there, I was not one to argue. "She is," I finally agreed, remembering the myth. "Something very precious was taken from her."

Conversation died after that, Desere falling back into her quiet contemplation as she slunk back to her chair. She went up to her room shortly after, but even today I'm certain that's where she got the idea.

"I want my second name to be Demeter," she said firmly. I paused where I was, halfway through buttoning up my overcoat in the process of preparing to leave for the promised visit I planned to give a certain young tuxedo-colored werecat by the name of Quaxo. Glancing sideways at her down the length of the entrance way, she seemed a meek figure standing in the frame of the tall door, her voice only reinforcing that. It took a moment of thought before I could fathom what Desere had just said.

I had only seen her shift once so far. Her human hair very dark, it was a strange sight to see her in werecat form. Her fur was gold, a lovely shade of yellow with red, black, and brown markings and a highlight of white along her throat, muzzle, and belly. It's a shame she didn't shift so often. She was quite a picture to look at. But more than that, it had never crossed my mind that Bombalurina had never mentioned her second name. I assumed she already had one, that perhaps she just didn't consider me a friend enough to reveal it, but at this proclamation it seemed I had A-S-S-U-M-E-d again.

"You're certain?" I asked. "You do know that the naming of cats is a difficult matter?" Quoting one of the very lines from a Jellicle song, she smiled slightly as she caught the jest, brushing back her hair.

"I'm sure."

"Very well. We'll announce it at the next Ball, eh?"

"Sure...thanks, Hunter."


	12. Munkustrap: WereCats 12

****

Munkustrap – Part Twelve

**The documented portion of the meeting with Quaxo has been removed for personal reasons.**

Thus I think whatever open relationship I intended with Demeter finally got off the ground. We began talking more and more on a regular basis. She told me about her past, asked me several aspects about Jellicle life, debated the many mysteries in werecat history, but never did she speak of Macavity. Never him. Nor did I pry. That was between her and Bombalurina alone. Sometimes I would ask, wanting to know more about this unseen terror, but never did she answer. It made me wonder, as well. If Bombalurina and Demeter were so tortured by this cruel Jellicle, why not take advantage of their positions now and take their well-deserved revenge? Bombalurina tried to tell me it wasn't that simple, but I couldn't understand. I wanted to. Genuinely. But they wouldn't talk about him. Sometimes Demeter would have her frequent nightmares about the Mystery Cat, the Hidden Paw, as they called him, and come crawl into bed with me again to wait for dawn.

There was, however, perhaps the only time she ever did talk about him, such a situation. Demeter—in werecat form...she felt safer—was curled under the thick blankets while I stretched out at the other end in my robe. It was well past midnight, but neither of us could sleep. She'd had one of her nightmares, and though she'd been lying curled up there for some while now, I could still hear her rapid breathing. It was a good half hour before she said anything.

"He'll come back," she rasped in barely a whisper. "He'll come back for me..."

"Who?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. I glanced across at her through the darkness, though in the light filtering in from the window I could only make out the curve of her spine beneath the blankets and the triangular outline of her ears. They swiveled backwards at the sound of my voice, but the rest of her was still.

"Macavity."

Hearing her say his name out loud was like hearing the click of a timer that would begin the gas chamber. I sat up, gaze now fixed on her intensely, and reached out to stroke her spine like any normal cat. "Don't talk like that, Des. He doesn't know where you are. You're safe here."

"He could find out," was her fearful reply, cringing away from me. "He always does. He knows..."

I didn't know what else to say. It had been months now that Desere had come into my care, and if Macavity had wanted to try anything it seemed logical to me that he would have done it when his anger was fresh. But then, if I knew better, I would know that werecats are hardly ever ruled by logic. Sighing, I leaned back against the headboard, the only sound in the room seeming to be the pound of her heart. It seemed to quiet down, but Demeter shot upright with that jerky suddenness that accompanied her paranoia. Staring wide-eyed out the window, still turned away from me, her shoulders heaved with pants.

"He'll come back," she rasped. "And he'll kill anyone who gets in his way. He'll kill you, Hunter, just to get to me." Her feline head fell, ears pressed back, her sobs cutting the still air. "Just my being here puts all of you in danger..."

"Demeter..." This time she didn't cringe at my touch, allowing me to crawl over and sit beside her with one arm about her gold-furred shoulders. She kept her face lowered. "If it came to that, I would do anything to protect you."

"No!" she suddenly snapped. "No! Don't even think about dying for me, Hunter. It wouldn't do any good. He'll find me...as long as I'm here all of you are in danger." Her body shuddered with the sob. "I can't stay."

I listened to her cry in her quiet, reserved way for a long while after, unable to do much except gently rub her fur and offer her that silent support of just being there. She turned her face into me, burying her eyes and muzzle into my robe. I put my other arm around her then, lowering my face to rest among the downy softness of her furry mane, breathing in her scent. "You're not leaving."

Her tears slowed after that, but still she said nothing. We both perhaps knew she wouldn't leave, no matter what supposed danger her presence put us in. She had nowhere to go, and I wouldn't let her go to an unprotected existence on the streets. I started singing _Memory_ for her, and sad a song as it may be I knew it relaxed her. It was our favorite.

Excepting for that deep-rooted fear for Macavity and anything pertaining to him, Demeter was quite a strong-willed and brave little queen. We would go for morning or evening walks in Central Park in one of two forms and she would bound on ahead, pouncing insects or leaves or teasing little dogs, or break out into beautiful songs and bits of dance in the city-scented air. When night was coming on she would stay closer, clinging to my arm, peering into the darkness with a growing fear that wouldn't diminish until we were back at the penthouse. There it would be books in front of the fireplace usually until we retired.

Most of all was her loneliness. It vanquished. It was probably some inner reserve of strength in her own self that did it rather than me, but whatever the source, I could see that her loneliness was gone. She smiled so much more often. She didn't clam up and curl herself into a protective ball of fur. I would no longer see her sitting in the study just staring into space, tears in her eyes. But overall the entire feeling within that apartment we shared was much more relaxed and friendly. And as much as I wished for it, I could never tell what Demeter really thought about me. Of course I would have liked to know...to know if she viewed me as just another Jellicle or one who was genuinely growing to care for her like his own daughter. And it was true. Knowing not in the least what having a family was like, it was strange in the way I began to view Demeter as different from other female Jellicles. She seemed so mentally fragile, so precious, that the slightest harsh word or action would shatter her emotionally like a porcelain doll. Her physical durability was not a worry as she could fight and dance with the best of them, but rather what grew between Demeter and I was pure feeling. There was a satisfaction in that I loved but couldn't explain. I'm not even going to try.

Of course I was glad to see Desere overcoming her loneliness, but as grateful for her friendship as I was I knew she could never dissipate mine. The loneliness inside me was a continuous dull throb, eased perhaps by the new companion but not erased. It was after a number of contemplative lapses before I finally reached a conclusion on that. It was the realization that I _wanted_ someone to love. The emptiness left inside me in Adelle's wake was a vast one that couldn't be filled by any friendship or family relation. It was a crave for that same satisfaction as when I'd courted Adelle. I wanted someone to love, I didn't care who; just a person who I could love openly, freely, and who would love me, filling up this absence of feeling. In the grand scheme of things it didn't really seem that much to ask...

It wasn't something I advertised, but I often did ask Heaviside for such a thing. Mumbled prayers or thoughts here and there, which surprised me. I had never thought I was a very religious Jellicle. Of course I'd read about the Heaviside Layer and Everlasting Cat from A to Z. I knew the rituals and songs that accompanied the Jellicle ceremonies but had long since fallen out of practice, but perhaps a mix of these knowledges and my fear of divinity made at least a subconscious part of me cling to that Jellicle faith. But even after coming out of a contemplative lapse I couldn't be sure about my exact feelings towards religion. On one hand I saw things in life, in my surroundings, that couldn't have happened without Heaviside's intervention. Little things, things probably no one noticed except myself, were small reassurances that the Everlasting Cat was still present and flexing her claws of power in the world. But I never made any conscious connection between them in my mind. They might have all been coincidences, these miniature miracles, but I couldn't think that they were entirely. Yet on the other hand, ruling the majority of my thoughts, was common sense and the chaos theory: that the world was just one revolving ball of random factors that sometimes fit together and sometimes didn't. All logical and rational, there was no such thing as Bastet, or the Everlasting Cat, or whatever she may be called. These two halves constantly feuding in the back of my head gave me something to ponder over, at least, and try to find an answer.

Whatever the truth may be, as much as I wished and prayed, I didn't expect to find my fantasy female anytime soon. If ever. Nor did I have the slightest idea what she would even be like should I find her. And what I did I know about love, anyway? If anything I knew how to hide it. Hide that and all my other feelings under the facade of Hunter Blakeney. Perhaps that was a good thing for a leader...

Hunter Blakeney...

And what to make of him? It was now plain as day to me and every Jellicle on the island that there was a distinct difference between Hunter Blakeney and Munkustrap. The idiot role that I played in society was a different character entirely than the one covered in fur. An act...it was all an act. Yet sometimes I wondered...how much of it actually was an act? I had begun to notice, I don't know when, that even by myself I would laugh in that inane manner or catch myself paying too much attention to insignificant things, like the design of my coat. Those were things Hunter would do...the idiot...the fop...the brat I used to be. The dividing line between Hunter and Munkustrap was suddenly very blurred, and it worried me. I didn't take much joy in acting like a nincompoop...it was tiresome, really, constantly laughing outrageously, making stupid jokes, having to ask the same question over and over again... I guess I shouldn't complain. There _are_ people who have more things to worry about.

But some things can't be ignored...like the dreams. The dreams I've spoken about before that plagued me when I was younger never completely went away. Though they decreased in frequency, their intensity didn't lessen. I thought they were just normal night fancies like most dreams, but their reality was unbelievable. There was one particular type of dream that I can remember having often. Though the place, time, and subject changed often, the one common thing that connected these dreams were my eyes. Every time, even in the dream, I would be trying to open my eyes and couldn't. No matter how hard I tried, they were heavy as lead. Even if I did manage to force them open, they wouldn't stay that way for long. Now that I think about it those dreams were actually quite irritating. I had thought these were purely symbolic in their meaning: I was Jellicle Leader and I wanted to keep my eyes open on everything.

Others I thought were outright silly, though they had their own meaning. One in particular that was recurring took place on a large open plain. On that plain stood a man and a cat, facing, each tense and suspicious of the other. Then a crack would appear between them on the ground. The crack would grow wider and deeper, turning into a canyon and then an abyss. The two kept glaring from either side of the divide, confused, angry, yearning, until they were just about to lose sight of each other. But just before that happened they both leaped, meeting mid-air, and when they clashed turning into a full formed werecat who landed proudly in the bottom of the canyon just as it became unreachable between all men and all animals. A ring of truth is there, about werecats being somewhere in between the kingdoms of humans and animals, but a union of both? It had always seemed that Jellicles were described in the records as a species of their own, not a mix of two others by some means of sorcery or science. Demeter agreed with me on that, though I didn't tell her about the dreams.

Demeter had been living with me for about a year now, and as unbelievable as it sounded she had never celebrated a Jellicle Ball. Apparently Macavity "wasn't like that." (From what I'd heard of him, after all, what was there to celebrate?) So when the air turned warm with spring and the final moon phase came rolling on around, like two parents Bombalurina and I escorted Demeter to her first Jellicle Ball.

And what a spectacle it was!

Should I live to be a hundred I'll never lose my wonder in the annual celebration. That unification...that ecstasy...the Heaviside-blessed wonder of it all. _Everlasting Cat_...if I describe it once more I could put a werewolf to sleep. But it's like an addiction! That intoxicating euphoria that sweeps over one's senses as they raise their clawed hands up to Lady Luna, curl their tails in the light of her favor, is a sensation unlike any other elation. A sensation I never tire of. The sky was a deep royal blue as the three of us padded along towards our designated junkyard, tails held high and senses alert. The full moon above, the last one of the spring season, had a glow all its own, turning the clouds that floated past it into lustrous silver carriages on which rode the very stars. The air was warm and still; not a breeze to disturb our balance. We were shadows ourselves as we slid with divine grace in between long barbwire fences and making our winding paths through the heaps of junk until the clearing came into sight.

It was here that we stopped. Staying hidden in the shadows, more silent than night and tenfold as stealthy, our slitted feline eyes swept over the area, noting every detail of the junkyard, every crevice and curve of the uneven flooring. Gazing down at my gold-furred ward I could feel the excitement radiating from her: her whiskers quivering, tail rigid, her pulse growing quicker with each passing moment. It was a contagious emotion. I could feel it already: that rush, that pull, that unity direct from Heaviside's moonlight that was spreading its claws over the junkyard, seeking out the cats that I knew were there but could not yet see, enticing us with the utmost temptations to come and begin the dance of revelry. In this night we cats were a single body. We were one.

I could feel the presence of the others as I stepped out gingerly into the moonlight, silver paws making not a sound as I stepped over the garbage, head held high with the pride of my race. It was a pride we all felt. This was not a junkyard to us, it was our paradise. Our kingdom where we werecats could dance and sing without care. There was a safety in that knowledge, a comfort that ran deep and true. I stopped in my slow, majestic pace in the center of the clearing, shifting to werecat form, turning my golden eyes up to the moon: our goddess. I felt the light of Heaviside and the Everlasting Cat sweep over me, penetrating my fur and inside me. It was entirely magical, this penetration I welcomed. It was like being uplifted, spiritually, emotionally, even physically. I gave myself over to it.

Lifting my head, I opened my throat and sang out the lines which had been sung before by so many others:

"_Jellicle Cats come out tonight_! _Jellicle Cats come one, come all_!

_The Jellicle Moon is shining bright_! _Jellicles come to the Jellicle Ball_!"

Since becoming Jellicle Leader I had managed to somehow avoid the interaction that the other Jellicles took on at the annual Ball. Let me say: it was no easy task. The silvery light of the moon pouring over the junkyard, that distant unheard music, the sight of the other Jellicles dancing as I sat back and watched from my platform perch, turned the entire night into a wondrous fantasy world I would gladly loose myself in. I can remember when I was younger and I would let myself fall into those maddening flows of energy and power that bound us Jellicles together for those few precious hours. It was all so wonderful... Even sitting there on my platform, watching over the area as I felt was my duty, sometimes I could close my eyes and feel myself swept along with them. I didn't have to be down there dancing for my soul to join the tribe in the annual Ball. I was there. When the time came I lent my voice to the celebration of werecats, but never was there a moment when my conscience wasn't joining the electric dance.

Yet sometimes I had to interfere. Fights would often break out among the toms, and whether under the influence of the full moon or not I would find myself sweeping down among them, snarling and swiping to get them apart. Nothing ever really came of it. Other times, when the moon was at its highest and the energy inside us ready to burst, I could see them pair off. As much as I felt otherwise, I could do nothing to stop them. I never tried. Some were able to resist the rush of sensation and the urges to mate, and would go off by themselves until the moment had passed. Others embraced it gladly, fearing nothing as they felt too feral and too feline to worry about anything. Here, also, I would keep my distance. I would turn away, unable to escape the rush, either, and deal with the private fantastic images in my mind until the moon's power began to lessen. Sometimes I didn't even remember.

It was about that time. Stretched out on my side, head propped on my paws, I felt the same fires of the Jellicle Ball well up inside me. Closing my eyes, the junkyard spread out before me was still as gorgeous as ever. The silver moonlight lit up the area with a dull glow, the light waves weaving and flowing like liquid that I could touch. The moon overhead was a blood red hue, bubbling and boiling with the same heat, its beams leaping down upon me in fiery stabs of pleasure-pain. When I opened my eyes again I saw them, swinging off in pairs, their dancing slowing but no less graceful or beautiful. Mating Dances, I've always heard them called. No Jellicle is ever taught any kind of Mating Dance, just as no kitten is ever taught the Jellicle Ball. It's rooted down, deep in our instinctual selves, that rises up when the time is needed. My eyes landed on Demeter.

Standing out beautifully against the silvery darkness in her golden fur, I saw her kick, leap, and lunge without stopping, that ever-present sad and forlorn expression gone from her face as she now danced in pure ecstasy. That was a relief, seeing her finally dance freely with that lightness of spirit and not weighed down by sorrows or bad memories. I was happy for her, dancing beside Bombalurina, their differences obvious but so close...and when the time came, I also noticed the attention Plato was paying her.

Plato...a tom very close to Demeter's age, a little older, perhaps, looked nothing like his father that I remembered, yet reminded me so much of him. As a Jellicle his fur was thick and shaggy, the majority colored a dull ratty brown speckled with silver, his paws black, and his face dominantly white with brown patches over his eyes and muzzle. Taller than Demeter, I watched as he approached her from behind, his liquid movements seeming nothing less than a dance as he crouched to rub the side of his head against her hip. I thought nothing of it, at first, lying there lazily, watching Demeter jerk away. She hissed at him, and for a moment he hesitated, but not for long.

Demeter seemed as entranced with these new sensations as I had been years ago with Bombalurina. Slowly her threatening menace faded, her eyes half closed as though hypnotized by the moon's power, and with the same tender caresses of a familiar lover she welcomed the tom as he advanced again. I watched without conscious recognition Demeter reach up to touch his face, his whiskers, in return Plato's black hands slipped around her lithe waist, their tails curling together, and he lifted her up into his arms. The dance continued, and I watched. The other shapes and forms of cats around me became a dull blur of color and movement, blending into a background collage as Plato and Demeter stood prominent in it, their dancer's bodies entwined in the Mating Dance. I could feel that same thing, that distinct burn in my flanks that accompanied these urges. I wanted to run out there and yank Demeter away from him, but whether it was for her sake or mine I don't know. That elemental madness was quickly overtaking my actions when I watched Plato turn away, lowering the gold queen down to the ground, and quite possibly the only thing that saved me from making a grave mistake was, again, Bombalurina.

I hadn't noticed her approaching until she slid down to a crouch beside me, settling her furry chin over my shoulder to gaze out in the same direction. Her scent was a perfume in itself, triggering more of those chemical fires deep in my gut. Her downy soft tail curled around to flick my whiskers, the purr in her chest reverberating against my back. Her closeness didn't make things any easier. I closed my eyes, blocking both the images of Plato and Demeter but unable to get Bombalurina's out of my mind.

"You shouldn't do this to yourself," she whispered, sending an uncomfortable tingle down my side. Her voice was low, slurred, detached...as though drunk. But that wasn't it. I knew that if I tried to speak I would sound the same. I shifted a little, hoping she'd move away, but she remained. Bombalurina probably didn't realize it, but by just being there, purring, in this rush of madness and moonlight she was being more sensual and seductive than anything else I could name. I rolled onto my back, pulling her on top of me and holding her there. The wanting was eased then, if only a little, but rather than stare into her white-furred face I gazed up past her tumbling red mane to the moon. It was swelled now, the size of Big Ben's face, colored the purest of ivory white. Staring at it, it seemed to shimmer with radiating power. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, totally overcome. _Heaviside give me strength_...

"I can't allow it," I mumbled. She nuzzled her cheek against mine, her breath, her scent stifling my senses. That was so easy to say...and Bombalurina...if only she wasn't so blasted gorgeous! What was even more difficult was that I couldn't tell her intentions...whether she was swept up by the moon's power then or whether it was just me...I didn't know. The uncontrollable feeling of masculinity, of being male, a tom, was beginning to take its toll. Some distant part of my mind that remained rational was afraid that if I kept letting myself go with this I wouldn't be able to resist. "How do you manage," I somehow mumbled, stroking her mane, "to keep from having kittens...with...?"

The grin she returned was as enticing as it was mischievous. "That's my secret," she purred, inviting me on with a feline lick. A well-kept secret, too. While most females resorted to the effective human means of reproduction control to keep from bringing too many kittens into the world (after all, we do live by human society and human means), Bombalurina as far as I knew didn't. Maybe she was barren, I don't know...it doesn't matter...

"Please, Bal...just leave me alone with my fantasies..."

"As though it's my place to regulate your thoughts."

I can say it now, because as I write this I'm in a completely rational state of mind, but anything that happened immediately after those few words is indescribably hazed. I can't remember...but I doubt anything happened. Bombalurina slipped away as vivacious and silent as she came, and I rolled back over, gazing dizzily out over the area until I found Plato again. He was standing, alone, seeming bewildered as a large slash covered the length of his cheek, watching Demeter slink away into the darkness.

There was a triumph in seeing that which brought a smile under my whiskers. Demeter had resisted. It seemed only proper for her...the gold-furred female who was petrified of males in that way, strong-willed and determined in her manner. I was proud of Demeter, having kept her wits about her and not won over by the madnesses of the Jellicle Ball. Not that there would have been anything wrong with that...I'm not one to speak...but even though at least once in every Jellicle's life it seemed inevitable they would have a Mating Dance with someone they may not even remember by morning, Demeter was different. It was her first Ball, a better Jellicle than I as she'd sustained when I dropped my watch over her. Incredible...her first Ball...

But this was a Ball that was to be interrupted.

It was like a blow to the head, like the energy that had covered the island that the vampires had brought, suddenly snapping. The energy the Jellicle Ball held over our minds broke with the suddenness of an explosion, and with all the same effect. The Twins sensed it first. Suddenly halting in their synchronized dance, their ever-somber faces whipped with a mutual hiss and bristle of their manes at the junk surrounding the place. Others followed: Mistoffelees, Cassandra, and so on. I stood up immediately, mind ringing with "Intruder!" and ready to fight any werewolf that dared to show its face on our sacred night, in our private celebration, who dared to violate our safety. But that wasn't what had interrupted us.

It was her! The ragged old woman from the audition. I knew she was a Jellicle then, after she had sung that beautiful _Memory_, and now it was only confirmed as her scent was unmistakable. That faint trace of roses, faded roses, mingled with her human scent as she limped out into view. Her werecat form was no better than when I'd last seen her outside the theatre. Dirty, disheveled, her fur was thin and ratty, colored what seemed to be a red-silver tabby, though it was difficult to tell for her coat was so tattered and torn. Her tail, incredibly thin and almost entirely black from some stain, hung limp and dragging the ground behind her. Her face, though feline, was still that of faded royalty: gray-furred though scarred and matted as much as her lighter bedraggled mane. She was unmistakable.

She appeared as though from the night itself, striding toward us with that hunched, cross-armed, slow manner. Yet as she drew nearer, she regained that proud gait, lifting her shoulders back and her chin up as one by one the gathered Jellicles turned on her, hissing, bristling. I couldn't explain it myself, but there was something about her presence, her scent, the sight of her, that I despised. It was radiating dislike that emitted from all of us, a mutual hate for this withered old thing. Yet I couldn't understand...I had wanted so much to speak with her at the theatre that day. Now, just as the moon bound our feline minds together for the dance, it bound our feelings, and leaping down from my perch I stalked towards her.

But the hatred was not universal. Some of the younger cats, more free-minded and rebellious in spirit, were curious and excited at the new arrival. I could feel their eyes on me, their mixed emotions pricking my whiskers, as I approached. First on all fours, I rose up to two to stand towering over her. Yet as I neared, the feelings grew stronger. I could see her now, her eyes that burning with those familiar yet distant gleams of life, outshining any of her dirty mane or limp, hanging fur coat. Closer, much closer, I could also make clearer her scent. It was rancid... I hadn't been able to determine it last time because of my human form, but now...great Heaviside! Her scent was caked in age, in travel, and in a musky perfume too horrible to place. It stank of rats, of filth, of a profession to vulgar to put in name, and most of all...death. Alive and watching now, this female rank of a vile death that surrounded her. It made me hesitate to go any further.

"What are you doing here?" I finally rumbled, ears flat and tail curled up in the scorpion-like manner of aggression. It wasn't a conscious action, but my legs crouched, widening, taking their stance as though it were a rival tom I faced and not a withered old queen. The female parted her feline muzzle as though to speak, but stopped, seeming to gaze over me before she spoke. Even then, her proud demeanor showed no flaw.

"I came to celebrate," she said, her voice harsh but as clear and crisp as when she sang. It made me wonder how...how could a creature so wretched in appearance show such pride? As before, I saw nothing to provide any background to her stubborn pride. Only that faded appearance that meant once great beauty, and that voice...that voice... The pride was all inside her, yet it seemed almost forced, as though even she knew there was nothing to back it up with. How could I still swear I knew her from somewhere? "I am as much Jellicle as you are," she went on, barking with that same regalness.

"You not wanted here," I said, not of my own will, but the will of the entire tribe. I couldn't conclude what I thought of her then. My mind was not my own.

"I have the right," she went on to stay, stepping forward to glare into my face. The choking scent of death sent me back a step.

"Get the wench outta here!" yelled a sharp voice behind me. Tugger. The old Jellicle's expression collapsed, her attention darting behind me to the others. Keeping my gaze fixed solely on her I could see it, slow but sure: her pride being beaten down and clawed to pieces as one by one the others followed Tugger's lead. Hissing, growling, yeowling insults and threats, the younger generations took up the example set by the adults, who for some reason unknown to me had the most reason to hate this female. Even Jennyanydots, the kind Old Gumbie Cat as her song dubbed her, broke her line with the others to dash forward, hissing a feline warning as she kept a group of kittens from growing too bold. The old queen looked back up to meet my eyes only fleetingly, then her battered muzzle lowered, her thin, sickly arms tightening in the hug around her as though for protection.

"I came only to join you," she whispered, barely audible even to werecat senses. "I mean no harm."

"You've done plenty of that already," Jennyanydots hissed behind me, such a tone I'd never heard from her before. Like being hit with a physical blow the withered old queen cringed at Jenny's voice. Her mouth parted, gasping a breath as though in pain. Her eyes returned to mine. What pride had been forced there earlier was gone. Her dull, sad gray eyes were naught but sorrow, and as though waking up from a dream I began to see those eyes in light of my own thought. Their sadness...it pricked my heart to see them consciously. And I knew them. I knew her. Somewhere...

"Who are you?" I growled, voice a bit quieter than I'd expected. "I know you..."

Her eyes shot down. "Don't say such things," she growled, a scratched whisper. "You know me only from the theatre."

A lie. I knew it. I _knew_ this queen! I knew her voice...her touch...her feelings, but...Heaviside! Where? When? Who was she? I could feel my spine begin to ache from where I'd held it arched, unknowingly getting stiffer and stiffer as I stared down at her. I reared back up, my arms lowering slowly to my side. My eyes never left her. She was...she was...something. She was beauty. She was sorrow. She was a familiar stranger, a famous has-been, a proud mendicant who was drawing me in the more I delved into her features. I saw her face tilted down at that angle, her faded mane falling down in greasy, tangled curls over her golden feline eyes. I saw the swirling ridges of barely-there fur that colored her cheeks and muzzle, short as bristles but downy soft to the touch, I knew. Their faded sheen was marred in tiny scars, smudged fur, bent whiskers that eliminated any trace of that feline fluidity, that sleekness. Her lips were parted, trembling with the first symptom of tears, the tips of her yellowed fangs just barely visible between them. Around her neck...her thin, scrawny neck...a ring of fur was worn and rubbed away. A collar mark. I could see myself touching her face, caressing that downy softness and hidden beauty with the coordination of an infant...a kitten... My breath was suddenly ragged, choking in my own throat as she looked up under that ridge of tattered mane fur. Her eyes...irises dark as pitch, their golden color that of ancient bronze...I wanted her. To know her...speak with her...touch her...break this line of hatred that was a barrier between us and extend my black clawed hands...but it wouldn't be me to break the silence.

Demeter's golden fur brushed my flank as she passed by, her steps silent over the uneven ground, her body posture yearning towards the withered queen in some fractional display of the longing I felt. I heard Bombalurina gasp behind me as Demeter extended her hand, its delicate golden color shining like the sun of the other female's dark shadow. And, like a shadow, she retreated from it, the old gray queen cringing away from this beam of friendly, welcoming sunlight that was Demeter. But Demeter's face...her arched dancer's body, was pain. Longing and pain. I could see it tearing at her as it tore at my heart. Mixed feelings for this outcast who I knew yet didn't. Her voice wasn't heard over the breeze...but it rang in my mind deafening roar.

"Grizabella..."

The one breath that it took to sigh that one word, the name of the wretch before us, took an hour before it finally died on the wind. With the sound of that name went the last ounce of pride Grizabella could muster, and her insides collapsed. Her breath heaved in a stifled sob, her feline eyes glistening with crystal tears that followed the grooves down her cheeks as they fell. My heart was aching, pouring out a kind of sympathy such as I've never felt for this Jellicle. Yet it was a pain my body didn't feel, and I did nothing.

Like Adelle...

They say it's an advantage for a leader to not let his emotions show in difficult times. To remain detached, observant, rational...

Bulls**t.

My eyes followed, pity among a pride of scorn, as the Norma Desmond of all Jellicles took up her limp again, striding past me, past Demeter, keeping her eyes turned away from the rest of us. That barrier, that wall of division, between our two sides won us over, and as she stalked back into the darkness from which she came I could see our differences. We were Jellicles. We were perfect in every way desirable to our race. She was a Jellicle, and she was not. Fallen from grace, she was offensive to see, her past deeds a deciding blow to her condemnation. In our perfect light she seemed everything we weren't, and we hated her for it. I hated her. She wouldn't tell me how I knew her...no one could tell me what it was she had done to deserve such a fate as being outcasted from our tribe, carrying with her this pestilence of a presence and the aura of a horrible death. I saw her fade into darkness...the twist of her left leg as she limped each time weight was put upon it...her black tail dragging the ground. I felt my heart reach out for her, yearning, longing to reach after and pull her back. Again, Demeter moved for me.

I whispered her name as she again crouched before me, reaching after the old Jellicle, but Demeter didn't hear me. The silence in the night was absolute, stifling us, our movements, our voices. Not a piece of junk in the area dared break that silence as Grizabella limped away. None of us who watched, hating, yearning, but always silent, moved. It was an eternity before Grizabella was gone entirely, only her scent lingering in the air, that foreboding death that chilled my blood.

The full moon had abandoned us behind clouds. The Jellicle Ball was over. Slowly, already feeling her tense, I reached out to touch Demeter's shoulder.

"Let's go..."

By the time we dragged ourselves back to the penthouse apartment building night was waning. As was our usual way of coming and going in secret, a custom I had started years ago at age seventeen, Demeter and I still in werecat form silently made the long ascent up the fire escape. It made me wonder why I remained on the top floor of such a tall building...the climb was exhausting. But that was as far as I could think. The events of the night were still a jumble in my mind, like a dream: vague and unorganized with no real linking factor. In the time it took me to scale those metal platforms and ladders before Demeter I had perhaps only distinctly recognized two subjects that crossed my mind. But it was as though a physical wall was separating one part of my mind from another, leaving these thoughts bouncing all over with no place to settle. All the better. I fear now that if I'd been able to ponder those thoughts then I would have found such conclusions that I wouldn't like. Such as how Demeter knew Grizabella's name...

We reached the penthouse without having said a word to each other. Even after slipping open the windows to one of the many rooms that were never locked for such reasons, Demeter and I slid inside silently, an awkward feeling remaining between us that was physically felt. We both knew it concerned that old queen Grizabella, what we thought about her interruption, but neither of us cared enough to share. Perhaps we weren't even sure. I knew I wasn't.

Desere retired immediately to her room and I to mine, hardly bothering with a shower before I changed from my set of forever fur into a more comfortable robe. Leaning gratefully over the bathroom mirror I splashed water onto my face, its coldness a welcome sensation after the absence of physical feeling for so long. The clock read almost two in the morning. Despite the exertions in the junkyard and the emotional turmoil I wasn't tired. Instead I stared at myself: my haggardness and graying hair continuous signs of aging. I was told once that Jellicles age slower than humans on the average, some combinations of the cat's influence keeping our kind youthful and vibrant even in older years, but I had seen very little evidence of it. I could still dance and sing as though I was twenty...but the rest of me... I was barely forty then, but I was certainly feeling it.

I didn't have the right to complain. Unwilling and unable to sleep I went down to my usual place in the study, turned on the radio at a gentle level and opened my journal to record the night's events. The one thing I left entirely out of this book of records I kept were my emotions. It was completely historical. Sometimes I would slip in a personal note here or there, a sketch of a face or outline, a doodle of a map, but largely the book was for reference. Sometimes I would go back and read it from the beginning, each volume as it began to build up, surprising myself at how little of it I actually remembered. Perhaps one day these records would come into use...reveal some vital information to a later generation of Jellicles. I could only hope.

I paused a moment after I'd finished the entry, gazing down with my chin in my hand at the dull sketch I'd completed of Grizabella. Something in particular about the sketch caught my attention...

Drawn in that same hunched forward, cross-armed, limping posture she'd displayed that night, her black and white face outlined in ink was gazing up at me. I held my pen back at a distance, studying the marks I'd made without consciously realizing it. Those eyes again...the windows of all souls...they stared out at me with a superiority that I'd seen only twice before from this queen: at the theatre before she knew who I was, then earlier tonight when she first entered the junkyard. Before her shame was brought down upon her and her forced pride clawed apart. Those eyes seemed to be swallowing me, my expression, taking it all in with royal immunity with an analyzing, critical mind but giving nothing in return. All emotion disappeared inside those slanted, feline eyes. If I stepped inside those eyes, into their bottomless depths, I would disappear in their strength. That's what I saw: strength. A strength that surpassed any I could ever hope to gain. It was strength that had kept this female Jellicle alive through all she had suffered, all she had born that brought her to shame and guilt. But what had she done? How could I know her?

Questions that would remain unanswered.

Her eyes, her face, the entire expression of this Grizabella was pacifying. She could take what was thrown at her, absorb it and forget it to keep going as though nothing had happened. She had to. The hatred and anger I had felt radiating from Jennyanydots and the others towards her was an onslaught of contempt and scorn, too great a thing to be fought off by oneself. But no...Grizabella was an actress, hiding her emotion for as long as she could sustain until it became too much. It was only then that she revealed what she truly was: old, broken, yearning to be accepted and understood. To be loved. It struck me only then. It was as though that drawing had come to life and rose up, glaring at me with those golden eyes. I saw something reflected in their amber depths, their strength and sorrow, something that shocked me so deeply I literally drew back with a horrified gasp and slammed the book shut.

I saw myself.

Suddenly snapping back to myself, I hadn't realized I had stopped breathing. Gasping out a stale breath and dizzily inhaling a new one, I swept up the journal and flung it back into the depths of one of the desk's drawers, closing it resolutely. Even then I didn't feel satisfied. Something had been penetrated inside me by the sight of myself in those eyes, something that disturbed me and haunted my mind like a pestilence. Something I'd never known before. I sat there, head in my hands, trying to determine why I felt as though something inside me had suddenly been torn aside, parted, ravished to the core and now stood exposed to the elements. Raw and throbbing. The feeling centered around my heart...the area of my chest where I imagined my heart to be, but was so deep and penetrating it couldn't be pinpointed. It was merely there, aching, trembling at being finally penetrated. It frightened me, this feeling that could be brought on from a mere drawing. Such intensity from an ink image on paper that was a mere representation of a living being. Grizabella... The mere thought of her name rekindling that throb in my chest, irritated that ache of exposure and penetration of something that until now had been entirely unadulterated. Why did she do this to me? How could I feel as though I knew her so intimately and yet hate her with that scornful contempt? I loved her...I hated her...I was intrigued by her...

Why was that?

My attention suddenly turned to the radio, where a Cindy Lauper song had come to playing: "_Money changes everything_!"

I turned it off. It was not the best of times for an onslaught of urges to strike me then, in the midst of my weakness and confusion. They came so suddenly, with such force that I leaned against the desk to brace myself. I thought of Grizabella...of Bombalurina...of Demeter just down the hall in her room...

No! No, I wouldn't allow myself to think any further. I tossed myself up from the desk and paced the room without rest, shifting from one form to the other without need, dancing wildly in short bursts to spend the energy, but the persistent stabs of flame refused to leave. Each time I passed by the door I would glare at it, sometimes with human eyes, sometimes with whiskers, and think of Demeter. Then I would pass on by, frustrated with myself and Heaviside.

Exactly opposite as when I'd arrived, the urges ignited a sort of sugar rush inside me, making my thoughts run with an exhilarated speed, connected in some logical way that couldn't be explained in words. Fueled on by those inward flames I shifted to cat form and leaped off the walls, clawed the curtains, swatted at objects on my desk until they tumbled to the floor. Rolling on my back I yeowled my agonies to the ceiling, knowing perhaps Desere could hear me but uncaring. This fit of catlike behavior was not uncommon, and certainly a better spend of energy than some alternatives.

By four o'clock in the morning I was slumping dejectedly over the arm of the stuffed desk chair, dog tired and feeling absolutely sorry for myself. My claws hooked on the material, penetrating but unable to gouge the thick leather. I suddenly found myself wondering which was worse: a life without love or sudden death. I was a Jellicle...a leader...I was probably condemned to both. I don't know what brought on those feelings of sudden despair, but as the fiery urges began to die down I was one exhausted cat, ready to very willingly fall asleep as I was.

Heaviside wouldn't have it. The sky was not yet light with dawn when I shot up ramrod straight, knowing something was inside the penthouse that shouldn't be there. What...why...how...I don't know. Nor did I care. Perhaps it was some barely audible sound in a distant room, or some change in the air and stir of dust as a window was opened, or even just divine intervention that alerted me to this unwanted presence. In werecat form I bolted up to full wakefulness and dashed from the room, nearly tearing the door from its hinges as I shoved my way through into the hallway, where every gut instinct I possessed was telling me to go.

It was in the hallway that I heard Desere's scream. A scream...no. No, that's not it. The sound she made then from the end of the hall—her private room—was an ungodly screech of mortal terror that was never before uttered by a living creature. It fell on my ears with the effect of a sonic explosion, freezing the air, activating my insides to take immediate action as just as quick the shriek came it was cut short by something, another presence...the one that shouldn't be there.

Bursting through the door to Desere's room was when I first smelled it. Smelled him. That acrid scent of evil, of vile corruption too satanic to speak of. The scent of Macavity. He was there, easily eight feet tall as he loomed over a werecat-formed Demeter on her bed, his hands around her wrists as though he were pulling her up to him, his tail arched and curled up in a rigid stimulated manner. I saw him and burst, fear forgotten, and roared his name so that he whipped to face me, Demeter collapsing back down.

I could see his eyes, the momentary gleam of his fangs and those sickly yellow catlike eyes as they slitted dangerously. My claws flexed until they felt ready to tear free of their sheaths. I wanted to fight him. Beat him. Kill him. I wanted it so suddenly with every fiber of my being, for violating the one place I held as safe, for existing at all. Something to take out upon all these feelings I'd been developing inside me since the sun had fallen.

I opened my mouth to roar, but in a movement too fast for my eyes to follow he leaped at me and had my face locked in his black hands. His wild eyes were wide in fury, and he opened his cavernous feline mouth and drew back his black lips over a long, sharp set of sabre fangs. His strength had me down on my knees, his face thrusting toward mine in what would have normally looked like a kiss. But our faces never brushed.

Our mouths were perhaps half an inch apart when I felt the air being emptied from my lungs. Wheezing, I coughed in natural reaction, but realized too late that I couldn't draw breath again. I gagged, my body convulsing in want for air as my lungs were completely empty. I realized what he'd done then: the werecat had stolen my breath. I groped blindly at his grip on my face, trying to claw him away with my feline hands. His eyes filled my vision, which after only a few moments was beginning to blur.

It wasn't five seconds of that embrace that he flung me down to the floor. I faintly heard a maniacal laugh, a crash of window, and Desere's mortal scream before my air-starved blood took hold and I passed out.

Sometimes it pays to go visit Heaviside once in awhile. When a Jellicle, any Jellicle, is rendered unconscious they automatically shift down to their most vulnerable form: this case being that of a domestic cat. How long I was unconscious wouldn't be revealed until I woke much later, but during that time my subconscious self took a vacation of its own and journeyed to a place beyond my physical surroundings. Weightless, blind, deaf, mute, there was only sensation. It could only be described as Heaviside...a Jellicle's paradise, a werecat's Heaven.

In this place there is only sensation and feeling. Emotion. Love, first and foremost. Love is all-encompassing there, in that dark Eden. The love I yearned for in everyday life...the love as I felt for Adelle, for Bombalurina, for Bustopher and Jennyanydots. A love so fulfilling I could willingly stay there forever, wrapped in this warm blanket of everlasting, fulfilling love. It was all so sweet...so divine...it was a pity I could only visit such a place on a rare occasion. But there was no doubt...I knew this was Heaviside.

Love, sensuality, compassion, security, grace, ecstasy...all these and more are wrapped up in one pitch darkness that extends forever in the Heaviside I experienced. I didn't want to leave it. I didn't want to wake up to cold, hard reality and leave this place of paradise. I didn't want to...

But I was needed elsewhere.


	13. Munkustrap: WereCats 13

****

Munkustrap – Part Thirteen

Things were hectic after that. When I awoke back into the world filled with my theory of absolute chaos, leaving that blissful moment of Heaviside, I ached. My chest ached with the physical pains of air loss, with emotional heartbreak, and for a moment all I could do was lay limp on my side, trying to stop the lightness of my head long enough until I could stand, drag myself to the phone, and call up Jennyanydots to relay to her what happened and do the same with the others. That, and with the warning to be on their guard. I had been unconscious most of the night...there was no telling what else Macavity had done in that time, who he may have attacked. A swift call to Bombalurina's declared she was undisturbed, though I didn't tell her about Demeter. Not yet. I must have sounded frantic, for she insisted she come over immediately. I told her no, to stay put until Jenny reached her, but knowing Gwyneth she would come over anyway.

If I was suicidal as a result of Adelle's leaving, mere words couldn't describe my reaction to Demeter's abduction. I wasn't depressed or overridden by sorrow as before, and I wouldn't allow myself to be. No, the depths I'd fallen to then had solved nothing, and I wasn't about to let Demeter slip away from me so easily. So easily...what effort had Macavity to go through to get in the apartment after Demeter and I arrived home? How hard could it have been for him to get in and to Demeter's room, to deal with me in no less than a moment and carry her away into the night? Nothing. None. Now it would take an enormous effort to get her back.

Of course that was my immediate thought: to get Desere back into safety, away from the claws of this unseen foe. But what were the odds? I couldn't automatically think Macavity was still in Manhattan. He could be anywhere, and not just in New York, either. A smart werecat armed with purring techniques, multiple forms, and the right amount of wit could travel leisurely to any remote spot in the world! Let alone one as powerful as Macavity was rumored to be. Macavity had left no scent on the windowsill he had escaped through, barely leaving any of Demeter's. But where had they gone from there? The window in Demeter's room which lay in a jagged pile of broken glass had no railing whatsoever beneath it, and the street was numerous stories' fall. Perhaps they'd just flown away like some vampire...I wouldn't put it past the b*****d.

Still, I would not allow myself to fall into that state of depression where my mind was in the mode of shut down: oblivious to all feelings and thoughts. No, I'd made that mistake once. I needed my head to be clear if I was going to get her back at all. To at least try...no, no. I would get her back. If I had to die in the process I would do it. This abduction of my daughter, very possibly the only person I could bring myself to love anymore, was an act of war. Macavity could have easily killed me before making off with her. With me unconscious, it wouldn't have been hard at all. Why hadn't he? Because he wanted a fight? Well, be that the case, I would gladly fight him. It was war Macavity wanted, and it was war he would get.

A search of the territory borders turned up nothing. Not a scent, sound, or stray hair. In the broad of day I had the entire tribe out searching, questioning, their cat paws shaking the pavement in a general will to find our lost kitten. None of them were to go anywhere alone. No less than three in a group for safety reasons. I alone struck out by myself, prowling past what was deemed "safe" territory and into the downtrodden section of Manhattan. I visited the place that Macavity had burned, that building where I'd found Demeter. Nothing but rubble. Rats scurried among the fallen construction materials, their claws scratching over the cement boulders and metal beams, their beady eyes staring out from dark crevices. Mocking. Watching. Laughing at my helplessness. Macavity's servants. I killed three of them before leaving.

That night several of the Jellicles congregated at my penthouse. Despite their excuses, I think they were there only to watch me, to make sure I didn't do anything drastic. I just might have had they not been there. Sitting in my bedroom, staring out into the nightscape through the dark window, I considered my options. Another city search would be useless. Macavity probably wasn't even here. If he was, he could hide. He would wait. And what was he doing with Demeter? Where was she? What Hell was she going through back in his claws after she had escaped? Heaviside, my thoughts that night were not pleasant ones.

Sleep was impossible. Even when I tried to lie back and close my eyes, it didn't do any good. Even in human form I could hear them down the hallway, whispering, talking about me.

"Will he be alright?"

"That remains to be said. He was not physically harmed..."

"...but Macavity has been known to inflict other kinds of damage."

"Why would Macavity do this? Why now?"

"Who knows what goes on in the minds of the insane?"

"It was an opportune time. We were all exhausted and unexpecting that night."

"He had plenty of time to plan."

"Maybe you should go talk to him, Gwyn."

"Right. What am I supposed to say? I've been trying all day, but the stubborn ratlover won't even think about anything except—"

The phone rang, and the voices I could hear fall quiet as it did a second time until I reached to pick it up. I announced myself in the proper way, cold, unfeeling, inane. It wouldn't have mattered. The voice on the other end was just as cold, just as unfeeling. Dark...hissing...vampiric.

"I just learned of your loss," said the vampire, the same I'd bargained my decency away with. My conscience. "Let me offer my condolences."

"You can do more than that," I growled. "You said you would help protect us if we needed it, against vampire or werewolf. We need it now! And against something worse than both! You get whatever bloodsuckers you have and use that Heaviside-forsaken power of yours to find this b*****d!"

"It cannot be done."

"Why not? You have power and influence. Heaviside knows it. Nor would you have called if you wouldn't be willing to stick to your word."

"I am quite willing, Hunter. But I tell you: it cannot be done."

"Why?!" I was yelling now. "I love this girl! If I had any way of finding her alone without begging for your maggot-eaten help, I would. But I can't! You've got to help me!"

"I understand your rage, Hunter, but allow me to say that Macavity is no force to be reckoned with."

I couldn't believe it. "What the Hell do you mean?"

"I mean that despite my power I am unable to help you."

"You sonofa—"

"However, I feel I should warn you—"

I slammed the phone down. My one valuable contact in this miserable world—no matter how despicable—would prove useless. I could have expected it so...what good was the word of a Tick? And Alex... Heaviside, why should a Vampire Lord be wary to take action upon Macavity? A werecat?! Was the Hidden Paw that powerful? That evil that he could incite hesitation in the undead? Then what hope was there for the rest of us...?

When a small knock sounded on the heavy door I was stretched out on my back across the bedside, mumbling out loud every prayer to Heaviside I could summon from memory, some of them making no sense at all as they were drawn purely from the heart: irrational words and phrases of emotion. A desperate plea. Lifting my head, I glared out at the line of light beneath it, the two shadows that stood there.

"State your business," I snarled in irritation, a tone and phrase which would show clearly I was in no mood to be bothered. Bombalurina entered.

"Who was on the phone?"

"No one important."

I sat up, but she lingered in the doorway, blocking the hallway lights from the darkness of my room. Silhouetted at she was, I could see her face. Her red mane fell loose and thick down her back, her voice with the usual steadiness and strength. I only hoped she hadn't come to discuss my attitude. My condition. I wasn't important now. What mattered was Demeter.

"The others are leaving," she went on. "I told them to. They don't want to bother you."

I laughed. Harsh. "Bother me? What could they possibly do?"

"They have a lot of questions they want to ask you. Concerns. Worries. I didn't think the pressure would be wise."

"Smart girl."

"Don't get sarcastic with me, Hunter." Now she strode into the room, her human form casting a long shadow on the wall as she took up a seat beside me. "Neither of us need it."

Indeed, I knew I sounded unfair. Gwyneth was at fault for none of this, and therefore shouldn't be the brunt of any anger. But aggression had to be vented somehow, and unless shredded pillows would suffice she was the only other source I found. Perhaps...

"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to say anything." Her hand reached for my shoulder, though I pulled away. "You're worried. We all are. But there's nothing we can—"

"What do you know about Macavity, Gwyn?" I looked at her, saw her questioning gaze, but mine was relentless. "Where did you two go? When? Where did he live?"

I knew better. Dragging up her past with Macavity would have been the same as bringing up Adelle with me, and both with the same devastating result. Gwyneth looked away, face hidden by the fall of her mane. For a moment I could see her muscles tense as though she would get up and leave. But she remained, her voice quiet. "He mostly came to my place and wouldn't take me to his. There was only once, when I met Demeter, but after that..."

"Is that all? You don't know anything else?"

"Hunter, please."

Sighing, I stopped, turning away as well and going so far enough as to put my own arm back around her shoulders. Some sign of apology. There was a moment of silence in which we were both withdrawn into our minds, our worries and thoughts. Gazing into the shadows of the room's corner, I was afraid to close my eyes against anything, afraid to even blink. I knew that if I did I would only see her: Demeter, in her werecat form with fur of gold, crouched and shivering in that dark, cold place like I'd found her. Huddled under a blanket with no clothes, her eyes wide in fear, staring at the oncoming shadow of darkness that was Macavity. He would demand to know why she had left him, and she wouldn't respond. He would beat her then, snarling in his rumbling voice, ravish her without mercy from a true feline position, and then...perhaps...he would kill her. I snapped my eyes open after realizing I _had_ closed them. Blast it.

"Worried isn't the right term," I sighed, standing to cross the room to my dresser, staring at the few useless items sitting there, dark and still. I wondered then why I had never even kept a picture of Desere. "I'm afraid for her, Gwyn."

"Macavity won't hurt her."

"He already has. He's hurt everyone. You, her...what made him keep her alive when she was with him like that? What's to stop him from killing her now?"

"You think he would?"

"I'm not going to put it beneath him. There's no room. If he harms a whisker on her head, I swear I'll kill him."

"Don't, Hunter. There's no point."

"There is." And there was. I thought Demeter was all I had now. There was the tribe, of course, but they didn't need me. They could survive...but Demeter... What else had I to keep going for? Myself was out of the question. I would never be a father, a husband, a mate. My family was dead. There wasn't a need for me to leave any part of myself in the world after I was gone, no matter what the Everlasting Cat said. If the name Blakeney was to fade out after myself, then so be it. If my fortune was to go to waste scattered among the four corners of the world, so be it. That wasn't important. What mattered was Demeter, her safety and happiness. She could live a life fully that I couldn't, but only then if I kept her safe. I tried, and I had failed. My last reason to keep going...gone. And I had done nothing to stop it.

There was something in that thought, something about Demeter's loss and my own lack of achievement that was indescribably infuriating. "There is," I said again, pulling open the top drawer of the dresser. Within it was a small box, more like a safe in that it was fireproof and was kept closed by a secure punch-code lock. I had never really kept anything in there of importance, perhaps the most valuable being the score and character sketches of the planned show about us Jellicle Cats, but then I could replace that. I would find something. "There is, and it matters." I punched in the code of numbers, opened the box and tore out its contents: frayed sheets of paper covered in marred ink and pencil, a loosely-bound score nearly two inches thick that showed the wear of its age, a tape of recorded pieces of music. These I tore out and gathered up, letting the box fall to the floor in a noisy clatter and without regard to Bombalurina stormed down the hallway, down the stairs, and into the study where the Jellicles had only just recently gathered. My anger wasn't justified other than by Demeter's abduction, my own feeling of worthlessness, a pent-up rage of frustration that wasn't vented until I kicked aside the grating and tossed the entire stack of papers and binders into the crackling fire. I stood back and watched them burn, the edges curling against the heat as orange flame ate them up greedily, feeling no regret until they were already halfway gone.

"Heaviside, Hunter," Bombalurina sighed behind me from the doorway, disappointed. It was a mutual feeling. A childish move, really, the burning offered no solution other than a momentary relief from the pangs of fury. I wouldn't take my eyes from the fire as I clenched my fists at my sides, letting my shoulders slump in that regret. I should have kept that score...

"You may go now, Gwyneth," I said, somehow managing to keep my voice at that steady, unfeeling pitch. "Thank you."

The dismissal was rude enough, but Gwyneth left without another word. I hoped she understood and could forgive my anger, but that seemed unlikely when I couldn't comprehend it myself. There was just no way for a werecat to get ahold of their emotions and feelings, let alone understand them. We were creatures of madness, of passion, who lived for the good of the species and reveled in any sensation we could obtain. We weren't supposed to question any of it: why we were the way we were, how things managed to affect us so, what we were supposed to do when these emotions got out of our minor control. Then why did I insist on it?

The papers were gone now, burned completely to ashes by the all-consuming fire. An emptiness prevailed now, a silence over the entire penthouse. Desere's absence. It was a void only she could fill. And I would let myself be embraced by a vampire before I would give up on her. Upon my life, my soul, I would find a way...

I turned away from the fire and slid out of the non-forever fur clothes before shifting to werecat form and stalking out onto the balcony, a place I'd spent so often gazing out over the landscape of Manhattan. Indeed, the scenery hadn't changed. Leaving over the rail I could see the distant points of light upon the Hudson River, see the blinking flashes of skyscraper towers against a night sky that was royal blue instead of black. My ears pressing forward could hear the individual voices of the street walkers below, the sputter of taxi motors. The wind carried the scents of the Atlantic over the island, among them the blood and filth of the city. What could have been a beautiful photographic opportunity from my viewpoint was instead one of my greatest obstacles: the very place I called home. Only a two by nine mile island, it was big enough to get lost in, big enough to house some of the most important centers in the USA, and big enough to hide two Jellicles from me.

"Where are you, Demeter?" I whispered out loud, my tail brushing the fur of my shins.

No one answered.

Only a short matter of time later there was a vast public scandal centering around some money-starving nobody who claimed to be my illegitimate son—a lot of good _that_ would have done him! Though it raised a fuss with the gossip columns and the press couldn't get enough of it, it blew over quickly. The man was disproved and the notion abandoned, I think partially due to my distance. I hadn't the time or interest to care what anyone said or did about me then publicly. They couldn't tarnish my reputation no matter how hard anyone tried. A matter of purring, a few phonecalls, and it would be resolved. One less thing to worry about, as my mind was solely on Demeter.

We could find nothing. No contact from Macavity, not a whiff of scent or whisper of word that would give any clue to where she was. If anywhere. I spent my nights searching, my days fretting, and no matter what the others told me or tried to tell me I didn't listen. I had no reason to. Some of them tried to call me repeatedly, though each and every time the subject was brought up that rage would return: that burning fury that incited in me only the sudden overpowering urge to lash out and slice their throats for mentioning it. Some leader...

This went on for weeks until one night I received a couple of visitors. All things considered, I'm glad that I did.

It was midnight, and sleep wasn't an option. Instead I was alone in the ball room again in night's concealing darkness. Moonlight spilled in through the tall windows, coating the floor in squares as bright as day to my feline vision as I danced, my footpaws silent on the floor. Humming a melodious tune made up entirely off the top of my head, I tried to lose myself in that same feeling and emotion as I had done so often before: dancing out my feelings and pains. Longing for Demeter, fury at Macavity, desperation for myself...yet I found I couldn't give my mind over as much as I strove for it. But I wanted to. When a werecat surrenders to the sensation of dance there is no room for thought, only sensation. Cats aren't allowed to worry and fear, hate or love, when they dance. After several unsuccessful attempts I gave up.

Not bothering to shift back I was heading back upstairs when I first heard it, a very unusual sound to be heard in my penthouse, at this time of night, when I was alone. Come to think of it, I don't think I'd ever heard anything quite like it until then.

A giggle. High-pitched and feminine, it rang out like a warning bell, meant to be quiet but amplified in the still silence. Then something followed it, a sound that contradicted the giggle in tone and in meaning. Deeper, masculine, and authoritive.

"Teeheeheehee!"

"_Shhhh_!"

Then there was only silence.

With feline precision I crept back down the few stairs I had already climbed, ears swiveling with a precision that surpassed any surveillance equipment and informed me that the sounds had come from downstairs to my right, probably the study. Tail held high, arched, hand claws bared and ready to fight, only my fangs remained in check for the moment I stalked down the hallway, stripes blending with the shadows. The study door was open as I had left it earlier, the room still dark and seemingly empty. I drew closer, each whisker strained and quivering to pick up any shift in the air for any cause, and just stopped beyond the frame I heard it again.

"Teeheeheeheehee!"

"_Shhhh_! Fer pity's sake, will ya knock it off?" came the harsh whisper, definitely male. "Yer gonna get us caught!"

No sooner had he uttered the last syllable then there was a resounding crash that could only be china shattering on the floor. That signaled the start for a horribly accented, whispered argument between the two voices which were evidently of opposite genders that didn't cease until after I had stolen into the room and flicked on the light. That simple action was enough to reveal the intruders.

Two werecats, undoubtedly as they were in that very form. A male and a smaller female. Their white faces whipped up the moment the light illuminated the dark-paneled room, both their mouths dropping open in simultaneous astonishment that could have otherwise been quite comical. Facing each other as they were, their body postures were almost identical, between them being held a large brown sack at which lay a shattered vase on the floor. Not a second passed before I stormed in towards them.

"Who are you?" I demanded angrily, fur bristling and fangs no longer spared. I could see them more clearly now. The male, bigger, stouter, had a coat of off-white fur covered in bold black, orange, and yellow stripes. Not true calico, but of the same colors. His was genuine. But the female, now that I could examine her closer, I could see her fur coloring was false. Indeed, they weren't identical. Her coat, the same off-white as well, had stripes that were indeed there but lighter shades of gray, black, and beige opposed to her counterpart's bolder pattern. To finish, the female's stripes had been painted over in orange, black, and yellow to make them appear bolder and more identical to the male's. I could see the patches of fur where the paint had clumped up while drying. What motivation lay behind this strange action, I didn't know.

"Who are you?" I growled again, quieter but no less a command.

And, oddly enough, instead of answering me, the male turned to his smaller companion and shoved her roughly backwards. "Now lookit wot ya did! I told'ja we'd get caught if ya didn't shut yer yap!"

"It ain't my fault!" the female countered, swiping his paw away with an obvious youthfulness. "It was you 'oo dropped the bloomin' vase! If ya'd pay a little more attention—!"

What exactly does one do in this situation, when one finds thieves in their home but instead of running the thieves remain and argue? In all honesty, the two werecats' sizes indicated that they were fully grown adults, and yet their manner suggested they were nothing more than kittens. Bickering siblings who before my very eyes swiped at one another and then lunged, falling to the ground in a noisy squabble that kicked and yeowled its way across the floor in a furry mass of calico. I felt nothing less than a real parent when I strode across to them, reaching in with black paws larger than either of theirs and yanking them apart with a dominating growl. And, like two children, they fell quiet and still, glaring at each other sulkily. Just their expressions would have been enough to make me laugh then...almost.

"What in Heaviside's name are you doing here?" I stated again, a little calmer at seeing their lack of apparent threat and at having their full attention now. "Who are you?"

"Blimey, ol' chap," the male grinned, his whiskers curling in an appealing smirk that offset his Cockney-like accent. "Jus' a bit o' sport, eh wot? Nothin' like a little night escapade t' wake up a feller's sense o' adventure."

"Aye," the female chimed in, her smile just as wide and twice as bright. She nudged the sack, only partially full with a few odd items. "Can't be blamed for wantin' t' 'ave a little fun." Back to her original self after the squabble, she seemed nothing but a quivering ball of energy; her tail, whiskers, and expression never staying still for longer than a few moments. Smaller than her male counterpart, who in turn wasn't nearly my size, I could place her age no more than early teens, the male in late teens perhaps. Both long and lanky, I couldn't tell if their accents were genuine and whether they were English or not, but the last thing it seemed that they were was dangerous. This in mind, I backed away a few paces.

"Sport? Fun? Is that what you call breaking into another house and burglarizing?"

"What else would ye call it, ol' chap?"

"I'd call it justifiable grounds for ripping out both of your throats."

A moment of silence in which both of the intruders blinked, their whiskers twitched, then as though on cue burst out laughing at the same time. Falling against each other, giggling uncontrollably, they slapped their flanks and curled their tails together, and all I could do was watch, perplexed.

"Blimey, ol' feller!" the male cackled. "Bad form, wot? Talkin' 'bout all this throat-rippin' an' whatnot. Ain't the kind o' greetin' one expects from a rich bloke." A flash of calico, and he was up on his feet, brushing off his chest fur neatly with a flash of utter gallantry. "Speakin' o' greetin's, me name's Mungojerrie."

The female half of the pair bounced up beside him, thrusting her shapely hip against his in a sisterly chide. They had to be siblings. "An' _I'm_ Rumpleteazer. Don't ya be takin' all the credit, Jer."

"I wasn't. Jus' bein' polite." The apparent Mungojerrie extended his calico paw toward mine, but I didn't take it. I didn't know what to do. Had these been any other common burglars found in my home, with my temper as it had been recently, chances are they wouldn't have lived this long. But these were other werecats, members of my species, and not only that: they had a certain appeal. The impression made upon me by these two was not the kind I could hate. In fact, despite it all, I grinned. After all, what had they done? Broken a vase? I gestured for Mungojerrie to withdraw his hand which he did with a slight hesitance, shaking my head.

"Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer," I tested the pronunciation, "as astounded as I am by this..._incident_...I feel as though I should make it quite clear I stand by my statement. You are the ones in the wrong here, no matter how much you laugh."

More giggling. "Mayhap," Rumpleteazer said cheekily, mocking the lack of conviction in my voice. "But what'cha gonna do, huh? It ain't like ya kin call the fuzz on us."

"You're right, but I don't need to. As Jellicle Leader and Hunter Blakeney I have my own authority."

Their already white-furred faces turned an even starker color as I said this. Of course I had made the assumption they knew who I was, by where I lived if not the surroundings, as I didn't think it common for thieves to attempt to rob any place they knew nothing about. But when Mungojerrie turned to the smaller female, his golden eyes wide in question, and muttered a quick: "Did ye know 'e was that bally Munkustrap-feller?" it seemed I was again wrong. Rumpleteazer only shook her head, the fear and worry over them drawn from a source only they knew. My own expression darkened.

"Something wrong?"

"Oh," the male sputtered. "No, no, laddiebuck. Nothin' the matter. Jus' a bit worried there 'bout wot yer plannin' t' do with two adorable kits like us." On yet another invisible cue the two werecats slung their arms over each other, bringing their faces side by side with matching grins that could have illuminated the darkest of shadows. Apparently it had some effect.

"We'll see."

By next light I had called together some of the older Jellicles to decide what to do with the new faces that—unfortunately—none of us had ever encountered before. An informal trial, Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer sat on the low couch still in werecat form for their own privacy as the rest of us sat at various places throughout my study, asking and answering questions. From where I sat at my own desk, I could see this would not be one the two rascals were going to lose. They worked a charm over all of us Jellicles like magic.

"Aye, we're from jolly ol' England," Mungojerrie was narrating, seeming to do the majority of the talking while his sister Rumpleteazer sat back on the couch, never completely still or quiet. "Came over 'ere after our parents up an' died."

"Oh my," Jenny gasped. "Weren't you devastated?"

"Eh, not really. Pop didn't care much enough t' 'ang around an' Mum was a real puss. Blimey, it was amazin' she lived as long as she did after 'avin' some o' 'er litter turn out t' be like this."

"Then who taught you what you needed to know?" Bombalurina posed from her corner perch. "About Heaviside and all?"

"Pop did when 'e was around," Rumpleteazer giggled, swinging her legs over the couch's side, her child-like face one of the more adorable things I'd ever seen. Indeed, the two were siblings, but were actually the same age. Rumpleteazer only seemed much younger for yet another reason I didn't know. They had been born of a werecat male and a housecat female in London, coming here of their own accord after being orphaned and making their living on the streets. For everything they seemed to have been through, they remained remarkably cheerful. Ahh, youth...

Actually cheerful isn't the word. After being asked several questions, one in particular which pertained to how they managed to get by in New York without our notice, Mungojerrie spat out a narrative which became more of a comedic dramatization as he and Rumpleteazer leaped to their feet. Bouncing, dancing wildly, by the end of the session not a werecat in that room wasn't laughing. The two young ruffians took up the offer to reside with Jenny for a time until they were old enough by human standards to keep their own place. That satisfied, the Jellicles once again parted from me.

The solitude that followed was a good one. Glad to have the majority of attention and concern turn away from me, I felt a burden lifted only to be returned by guilt. Demeter still missing and I was laughing at some new arrival's antics. Heaviside, could I never stop? Everything I'd thought a leader should be...how I imagined the thought patterns of Gus and Admetus...how they reached decisions and made choices...when I was young were nothing like what I was experiencing in this position. I began to wonder, and not for the first time, about my character and ability to fulfill the position I'd held for some time now. Of course I thought I was selfish...constantly worrying about my own feelings and position when what really mattered was the good of the tribe. And I was rich...that carried with it some guilt. But then perhaps I was fooling myself. No one could live completely without worrying about themselves at least a little. Nothing like a human or werecat, that is. But did I fit that description? I didn't know...and I hated it. I wanted to be a good leader. Not necessarily one to be remembered by future generations, but at least one who would make improvements, benefits for his kind, considered successful by his peers. Perhaps that was what scared me most: failure. I was horribly afraid of failure, but that couldn't be justified. I'd never done much that risked failure, I don't think. After all, what could Hunter Blakeney accomplish in society? Set a new coat in style? Donate money? Write a show and burn it...

The next morning was dull and overcast with clouds, and as the tradition had sprung up between us on the day of the full moon every month I accompanied Jenny to Bustopher's grave. Dressed in classic black, I stood in silent respect behind the motherly queen as she knelt on the spot, rearranging the array of flowers she'd brought. Every month she brought fresh roses, tiger lilies, daisies: her way of making up for not being able to dance with him at the Jellicle Ball. Her quiet voice rambled on over one thing or another, very solemn and grim in the cemetery's setting. Lifting my eyes on occasion over the dismal scene I could see the black limousine that had brought us here, the driver leaning against it sipping coffee. Even here there couldn't be any privacy.

"The Twins have done all they can," she sighed at length. "They wanted me to tell you they can't detect anything."

Demeter. I nodded. "Alright."

"Those two ruffians certainly are a handful. They absolutely will not sit still!"

"I can have them moved, if it's too much of a burden."

"Oh, no, no. Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer are awfully sweet. They do tend to get into things, but I'm glad to have them around." She sat back on her heels a moment, gazing down at the perfect red roses. The black-shaded veil over her face couldn't hide her fallen expression from me. "I do miss having some children running around that empty old house..." She sighed, smoothing down the folds of her dark dress. "But I'm afraid I'm getting a bit old for that sort of thing."

Jenny never found herself another mate after Bustopher, yet I still wouldn't call her old. She had the energy of two Rumpleteazers. But her downfallen words were true, and unable to say much that would have been worthy enough to even be heard at the time, I placed a hand on Jenny's shoulder in support. It had seemed that in recent times Jenny and I had been turning more and more to each other for comfort, our shared positions in society seeming to provide some sort of understand between us, of our positions and troubles. Jenny was wonderful company and an excellent hostess, but more than that she knew how to be a mother. I'd never known mine...but there was a gentle tenderness in that.

"At least you had the chance," I told her as we walked back to the car. It wasn't meant to be a derogatory statement towards myself, but rather an acknowledgment of her success. Of course I admired the Old Gumbie Cat. Jenny was an ideal Jellicle: caring mother, faithful mate, protective and nursing of her fellow felines. I found that I did indeed love her, but not in the way that I wanted. More often than not on long nights when I had nothing to do we would meet at her apartment for some of her fabulous home cooking and spend the night in conversation, about Bustopher, about her kittens, about life. One of the few places I found peace anymore.

We stopped at the car's gleaming black side, Jenny standing beside the opened door a moment as she turned up to me. She placed her hands on my cheeks and gazed at me serenely, her smile beautiful and kind. "Don't deceive yourself: you'll find someone. I know it. Heaviside has plans for us all." I leaned down obediently as she kissed my forehead, then stood in silence as she climbed in and the driver shut the door after her.

"No, it's too late for that..."

"Pardon, Mr. Blakeney?" the driver asked. I shook my head, patting his narrow shoulder as I rounded to the other side of the vehicle.

"Life to the Everlasting Cat, my boy," Hunter said. "Vivat."

Several more times after that the Vampire Lord and I exchanged words—some kind, some less than—about Macavity. The Tick knew about as much as I did about Macavity: rumors, stories, indirect evidence. What he could tell me was that Macavity had been in Manhattan longer than he had, which had been roughly forty years. If Macavity had been here before that, his age, the vampire didn't know. But it was known that he was responsible for the destruction of several dens within the city limits. Dens that were supposed to be powerful. But forty years ago? How old was this cat? Still, it was nothing I shared with the others. They had enough to worry about.

Which apparently Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer did not. The two were carefree as much as they were reckless. It was another gathering at _Jenny's Sanctuary_ where I and several others were helping to hand out holiday dinners that the two rascals had been invited along. Behind the counter in the kitchens they bounced to and fro, dumping dirty pots and pans into the sink to be washed and bringing fresh ones to Jenny and her cooks. Their nimble human bodies, still rather small, skipped and hopped with boundless energy across the tile, humming and singing in their accents that were refreshing to our ears. Jenny handled the kitchen with her children and other human volunteers while Tugger, Skimble, Bombalurina, and I handed out food and drinks at the serving line. It was a dose of reality for me to see New York's poor and homeless coming in from the cold. People I could never relate with. I smiled, nodding in response when some of them recognized me, carrying on my task with a mechanical repetitiveness. But the sibling new arrivals couldn't be content doing anything for very long.

"'eya, cats," Mungojerrie drawled as he bounded forward from the kitchen into our conversation, followed by his counterpart who only rarely left his side. "Anythin' more excitin' 'appenin' out 'ere?"

"Aye," Rumpleteazer piped. "Gets bally 'ot in those kitchens." She fanned herself dramatically, gazing out the line of sickly, unshaved humans clad in rags and wrinkled her freckle-covered nose. "Wot's this? Flea central?"

"Now, now, lass," Skimble snapped quietly, taking hold of one of her shoulder-length braids to hold it up enough to make her stand on her toes out of pain. "Show a little respect."

"Aye, RumpleT," Mungojerrie teased as his sister was set down. "Be glad we ain't workin' in conditions like that ol' Napoleon bloke."

"Who's Napoleon?" Tugger chuckled, not looking up from his task.

"Err...wot was 'is name, RumpleT?"

"Macavity."

Everything stopped. A deathly silence fell over us all as we turned to set our gazes on them. Forgetting all else, forgetting the humans and odd werewolf lined up for the food charity provided, forgetting the cooking meat and bread in the background, forgetting even ourselves the two young werecats were surrounding in our stares. Jenny's hands that held a rag to wipe away sticky flour was paused. Tugger's mouth half-open in the finish of a yawn remained so. No one blinked. Breathed.

"What did you say?" I finally managed to choke. Furthest from the two, I was glad they might not hear the shakiness in my voice. Only one thing was going through my head then, one thought, pounding and reverberating on the point of explosion....

"Macavity," Rumpleteazer said, a hesitant echo of her former cheekiness as she seemed suddenly even smaller than before, moving slightly closer to her brother. I stepped forward.

"What about him?" Almost a growl.

"We...err..." Mungojerrie sputtered uncertainly. "We did a few jobs for 'em a couple'a times. Heheh, wot d'ye think we was doin' in yer flat, ol' boy?" A laugh as he regained his confidence, shrugging largely. "Didn't know ye's that Munkustrap 'e warned us about."

"You worked for him?" Skimble growled, had he worn fur then it would have been bristling. Rumpleteazer, hands on her hips, made a face at her brother that defiled the childlike quality she had. "Jerrie did most of it. Wouldn't let me get too close t' the blighter. Said it was too dangerous." She shoved him. "Yeah roight!"

Mungojerrie glared as though he would shove her back with a rude comment and would very well have if I had not shot in between them. Holding Mungojerrie's shoulder roughly, I nearly screamed into his face: "_You know where Macavity is_?!" My anger was justified. Having not heard the last few sentences exchanged between them, I had only one intention, one goal that my thoughts pressed toward with this information. Demeter was in my grasp again, and I wasn't about to let go. And no one dared to try and stop me. "_Where is he_?!"

Mungojerrie cringed, grabbing my wrist and trying to pull away. "The...ol' ware'ouse down by the...south side jetty. It used t'...used t' be a ol' fishery..."

I was halfway across the room and ready to bolt out before Geoffrey's restraints on my shoulders stopped me. The room was blurred away as I reluctantly stopped, keeping my eyes focused intensely on the double glass doors as his voice whispered harshly in my ear: "Fer Heaviside's sake, Hunter, don't even think about it! Listen...listen...Macavity's not goin' anywhere. This can wait 'til we plan—"

"I'm not leaving Demeter in there another moment!"

Tugger joined us, as did Gwyneth and eventually Jenny until they physically had me barricaded. I glared at them each in turn, daring them to move, yet begging to be let go. Heaviside bless their hearts: they didn't budge. Geoffrey's hands remained steadfast.

"Don't you rush of without thinkin' again."

Again? "But Demeter..." No, it was useless. I had to be a leader and face things as they were. Demeter was still in that rathole, and I knew where it was. And they were right. One more night...one more agonizing night to plan her escape while she suffered in that place. Heaviside, I couldn't stand it!

"Fine," I snapped, shoving him off. "Fine. You doglovers rest tonight if you can, and first thing tomorrow we're meeting back here. Understand?"

Nodding heads. Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer bounced over to join us, but even as their mouths opened to speak I placed one hand across each to cover them. "Not a word to anyone," I growled. "Go back to your tasks, cats. I'm going home."

And I did. They parted before me like water as I swept on out in a flash of black. No one paid any heed. If so, they didn't for long. It was only Hunter Blakeney storming out, slipping into his coat, hat, and cane as he did so. Nothing unusual. What was unusual was when my hand reached out and touched the glass door. I stopped, turned, and looked back over my shoulder. No reason in particular. But what I saw was...her. Grizabella. That bedraggled human woman no better off than the cat I'd stared down at the Jellicle Ball not over a month ago. Our eyes met across the room. Only for a moment. I could remember what I saw in her eyes, those eyes I drew. My lips parted as I faced her, the growl rising in my throat on its own. "Keep away from us," I whispered, and stormed out.

Tomorrow was so far away.

How could I sleep? With Demeter in my reach and yet still in that indescribable torment, how could I even think of it? Perhaps the others could sleep, put it out of their minds with the thoughts it would be better to get a good rest so they could think clearly tomorrow, but I couldn't. I wound up walking the streets back to my apartment building, cane tapping an odd beat against the sound of my shoes, one hand shoved in my coat pocket as I kept my eyes lowered. It seemed so awkward...I knew where Demeter was. Here. Now. Yet I did nothing. I was going home instead of to rescue her from whatever Cat Hell Macavity dragged her to. I was going home to sleep, to wake up tomorrow and plan, and it wouldn't be until tomorrow night that I would even set a foot in her direction. It was wrong...horribly wrong.

I reached the building with the realization that I loved Demeter. Loved her as a person and my daughter, and yet I had never told her. She had to know...of course she did. But I never told her. The guilt was excruciating, and it took all I had and more to keep from staggering as I walked through the lobby, into the elevator and up to the top floor. I asked Heaviside for forgiveness, but I doubted I would get it. The Everlasting Cat wasn't known for being forgiving. Just, perhaps, and cruelly honest. Detached. Emotionless. A real feline. I often wondered what she thought of me.

When I reached the heavy oak door to my penthouse I stopped, looking down at a small folded piece of white paper set on the doorstep. Message from one of the porters, probably. They often did that. Kneeling down I picked it up with two fingers, standing on the doorstep to read it. It wasn't signed, but the handwriting was clean and clear...

_I'm still here. Come and get her if you can. You have ten seconds._

Macavity lied about the number of seconds.

Approximately two of the seven seconds that passed between my beginning dash and my crashing out through the window at the end of the hallway in a flurry of silver and black fur were spent shifting to normal cat size as I flipped through the air, hurling for the street below before the top level of the penthouse I'd just left exploded behind me. Intense heat singed the fur on my tail. The horrid scent of phosphorous and sulfur filled the air a fraction of a moment after the explosion sounded throughout Manhattan.

It would be the first of many assassination attempts.

I hit the pavement with an unusual hardness, unable to properly land on all fours in time, and heard the crack in my ribs long before I felt it. Sitting up dizzily, my feline eyes turned to glare spitefully back up at the penthouse. A pile of rubble, dark against the sky. Strange, I thought, that there was no fire. Only that horrid smell of acid and sulfur. Rotten eggs. My mind was made up then. Despite the ribs, despite the wail of sirens in the distance, despite every promise I may have made and whatever I told the others, I turned my nose into the city and my cat's paws carried me away. Toward Macavity.

Toward Demeter.


	14. Munkustrap: WereCats 14

****

Munkustrap – Part Fourteen

"Hunter, you've got to live like a king and die like a man," I remember someone once told me. A cliché, probably, heard on a film or somewhere that was far from original. That phrase flashed through my mind sometime before my four paws hit the ground and I stumbled, only to look back up and see the blast from the top of the penthouse apartment building. Perhaps for a moment I had thought I was going to die. I don't remember thinking that, but it certainly did cross my mind as I headed off into the night, searching for Macavity: how or where to find him remained yet a mystery. But I didn't have to worry...he would find me. Yet the moment I headed off, towards that dreaded target, I could only wonder..._what in the name of Heaviside am I doing_?

I wasn't supposed to be reckless. I was the Jellicle Leader, the sensible and responsible one. Supposed was the operative word. Indeed, I lived by the phrase spoken above...someone who is rich in the modern world lives in a playground. I had never considered my own death that I could recall at the time. In the human world I was invincible: Hunter Blakeney whom nobody could touch. But here I was as Munkustrap, charging headlong into what was an assured disaster on an impulse.

Was this the only way I felt I could prove to Demeter that I cared for her? Because I felt guilty? No...no, there had to be another reason. Of course I was doing what was best for the tribe: protecting them. Rescuing Demeter. If at all possible getting rid of Macavity in the process. But the latter thought alone was uneasy to think about. I had never killed another werecat, let alone one as powerful as Macavity. (As of that moment I had no doubt about the truthfulness of his rumors.) Vampires and werewolves, fine. That was a hatred that went back as far as our breeds. Those encounters were impersonal...the kind of battles fought in wars between parties who knew each other only by nationality. They had no names. No families. No effect upon a man's conscience. This was personal. Macavity had gotten into our home, penetrated my territory, terrorized those under my watch, and now stolen something very dear to me. This was a private war.

I read somewhere that leaders who examined situations from the viewpoints of their enemies could often see conflicts in a clearer perspective. As I paced along the dark streets lit by the signs of Broadway, Times Square, Park Avenue, and such, I tried to do this. I put the questions to myself as I scanned the darknesses of the city...unknowing of what I was searching for but sure that when I found it I would know. And I _would_ find it. How did Macavity view us? The possibilities were endless, as I had no idea how Macavity thought. He could be sane or non, certainly very clever and resourceful, Gifted or not. To him we could be a group who had him outnumbered, which was why he never showed himself to us. We could be rivals and equals. On the other paw, we could be mere pawns in a game he was playing for sheer amusement, like those all-powerful Ticks who lorded over us. I had no way of knowing...and that, as stated before, bothered me.

And there was something else...something that irritated my thoughts. It was Bombalurina. Her reaction...to Demeter's abduction and everything that accompanied it. It seemed as though...she didn't care. Like she had been trying to hold me back instead of diving headlong into a search for Desere. Why was that? Furthermore, why did I allow her? Of course I could have written it all off as us being under powerful influence again. Perhaps that traitorous vampire who refused promised help was in league with Macavity also, and had in the most undetectable way hindered us from any real efforts. Everlasting Cat help us if that was true. Me, most of all.

It seemed no matter which way I viewed the situation, I was the centerpoint. Possibly a logical occurrence, but also one that put me on edge. I knew my duty as a leader, and that was to protect my territory and those who inhabited it. A delicate situation, for it was up to me to make the major decisions and courses of action that would affect us all. How could I possibly think I would make the right decision and choice every time? I couldn't...it was that simple. If I didn't take the correct step, I would fall. The entire tribe would go down with me. Somehow or sometime—perhaps it had already happened—I was going to mess up. And when I did, the tribe would suffer for it. I just hoped this wasn't that time.

Macavity was waiting for me on the border of his reign, where his territory met mine: 14th Avenue. A cat in the dark, he sat so still that if it were not for his commanding presence which seemed to silently call me to him I would have passed by altogether. But there he sat, cat size no bigger than mine, body long and lean to the point of gaunt with a mange-ridden fur coat that could have passed off as tortoiseshell, it was so mottled. Sitting in a windowsill with paws dangling over, tail twitching as the only sign of life, he stared down at where I stood on the sidewalk, frozen as our gazes met. He was grinning, of course, in that malicious, evil way that I had always imagined him to. His exposed fangs gleamed in the dim surrounding light, bat-like ears pointed in every which direction to keep up the sounds of the humans who passed us by. Unknowing and oblivious. All they would see were two cats staring each other down. They wouldn't see the intense hatred and rivalry that was brewing between us, making the very atmosphere tense with feeling.

With him in the window and myself on the sidewalk I was almost five feet away from him, and yet I could smell him. His fur smelled of ancient dust and decay, almost vampiric save for it lacked the putrid odor of rotting flesh, that spoke his age. Blood and gore was present in those scents, which came as no surprise. Mixed within them was a tiny fraction of an aroma that I could place immediately once it was detected. A scent I knew. Demeter's. Macavity's eyes were golden and so extreme I could lose myself in their bottomless black depths and the knowledge they contained. Their slitted irises spoke of the things he'd seen over an extended life, things no mortal should have seen. They spoke of a hunger for life, for knowledge, for answers so intimately related to mine I shivered. There was a beckoning in them, as well, an erotic, tempting call that was restated in the natural purr deep in his throat; a sound which I couldn't hear but felt its bass vibrate my paws on the sidewalk and the heart in my chest. As though just his purr could work its way inside me... When Macavity leaped down and sped away it seemed as though I was following willingly instead of chasing him.

Further and further we went away from the safety of my territory, to the south-west part of the island. Once again the scenery around me became dismal and silent, emphasized only by the night above. Macavity must have done some cleaning, as well, for not one human could be spotted as far as we went. He knew I was coming. The smell of salt in the air grew heavier, and I began to realize where he was taking me. To the south jetty...just as Mungojerrie had said. Relieved because that may very well be the place Demeter was held, I was also worried. Macavity would know the place much better than I. My situation was bad off enough because of the foe I was facing without being worsened by the location. For nearly a mile I followed Macavity's scent, the sound of his claws scraping the ground, his deep laughter that was carried as a whisper on the wind. I was probably already foolish enough for even thinking I could stand up to him.

The ground began to slant, turn to metal, after what seemed an eternity of padding along on silent feet. Macavity's scent still burned like fire in my whiskers though I could no longer see him. His scent, and Demeter's. I was getting closer...I could feel it. Macavity's den—the centerpoint of all his territory—could be distinguished by the feeling of it alone. Desolate, alone, and dark. Always dark. I began to slow in my persistent trot because I could no longer see around me. Even with feline eyes, a cat's ability to see in the darkness as clear as day, all around me was pitch. I edged along at a low crouch, tail lifted so its tip could tell me of anything above, whiskers flexed to tell me of anything around my face. It seemed as though I was going nowhere, step after slow step. Only down. Down into the darkness, away from the moon and her protective light, away from fresh air and life, away from Heaviside. Down into Hell. The silence was even worse. Heaviside, the silence! Quiet isn't the word... It was a physical barrier pressing against me from all sides, stifling the musky air that alone was hard enough to breathe. A draft blew from somewhere into my face, bringing up the scents from below on the downward plane I went. Scents of death. Of decay. Of Demeter. Yet I could hear my sense calling me, telling me to go back to the surface and to safety. But something else, something more powerful, pulled me to Demeter. Always down.

Then it stopped. The ground evened, the draft halted, but the silence still pressed, all-encompassing. I could have died of fear. The silence, the darkness. I couldn't see, couldn't hear. What little I could smell did nothing to further my courage. As though the darkness and silence was a magnifier for my own thoughts, they raced, gathering momentum and intensity as my pulse pounded in my chest. Black feline lips parting, I panted in an effort to calm myself. Rationalize. Be a leader. And none of it worked. This must have been what it felt like to be dead. I could almost hear them, the echoes rising off the walls and through the dark corridors, fading until they were swallowed and buried in the absolute silence. Silence that killed, concealed. But the air was rank and stale, and I coughed to rid my lungs of it.

That was when the attack came. From nowhere there was a screech, like that of a diving falcon, before something slammed into my shoulder and sprawled me flat on the cold metal floor. It wasn't an attempt to wound, though I could feel the claws dig into my fur. I climbed back to my paws, not yet wanting to shift up because I had no idea where I was. It was still dark, and after the horrible screech died away I was left alone again in that d***ed silence. "Show yourself!" I snarled, and immediately realized it was a mistake. My own feline voice echoed off the barren ceiling and walls I couldn't see, fading in the distance, seeming to confirm just how alone I was. Alone and vulnerable. Now my heart was hurtling through my body at breakneck speed, threatening to burst at the slightest more pressure applied from the silence, the darkness. Then I heard them, smelled them.

Rats. Thousands. I could hear their claws scratching the metal, their vile squeaks and snaps ringing in my ears, growing closer...closer... They were coming for me. I could see it: their teeth gashing into my flesh, overwhelming even a werecat by sheer numbers, stifling my screams by their rancid cries as they choked my throat, ripping, tearing... They were coming. Closer. The only noise in the silence. And growing louder... Heaviside, could nothing stop that noise?! Why didn't they come already?! Kill me! Put me out of my fear! I flexed my claws in preparation...

That too, stopped. As suddenly as it began. Now there was only my breath, ragged, and my pulse, pounding. I had to get out of here...

"It's easy to be scared," came a voice. That low, hissing, sensual voice. "So easy when you've been protected for so long."

It came from all around, as thick and encompassing as the darkness and silence. I crouched down, belly on the floor, claws spread, ears flat, tail low. Fear wasn't the appropriate word. I somehow found it within me to cry out, though I couldn't hear my own voice. It was swallowed in the absolute darkness, like everything else. "Show yourself, Macavity!"

There was no answer. Only the sound of tinkling glass somewhere, and a laugh...that laugh. It was small, drowned, yet it echoed within my own mind greater than any sound possible. It was that sound that had been rooted forever in my consciousness long ago, when I first heard it...at that abandoned building...

"Have you ever smelled burning flesh?" came the next question, biting, scorning. That voice which was so sharp it could cut steel pierced my thoughts like they were nothing. I heard a click somewhere, the whir of a motor, and that was when the metal beneath my paws began to heat up. Slowly I stood back up, shifted as the discomfort on my pads grew, only to find the air growing hot as well. I realized it then: only then, and far too late. A crematorium. "It's one of the most horrid smells in the known world..."

I yeowled, a strangled cat's cry, and dashed madly back in the direction I had come. In the dull red glow that was heating up the floor I could almost begin to see, though that didn't help much by the time I found the wall of the oversized oven. My claws scraped the hot metal, oblivious to any and all resulting agony. "_Macavity_!" I cried out again, useless as it was, but this was from pain. The black pads of my paws were scalding on the hot metal floor, no matter where I ran. Even before the air got hot and it became hard to breathe... In one last desperate attempt, reason and thought driven away by sheer panic, I threw my weight up against the wall, not a particularly selected spot...and it gave way.

Fresh air. Light. Coolness. I stumbled out, letting myself collapse on a cool ground of cement, panting, fighting back the urge to cry. It wasn't so much pain as humiliation. My paws hurt as I licked at them, for certain, but the blow to my pride was even worse. So easily had I followed Macavity straight into that place...where he could have killed me. Why didn't he? To humiliate me again? Drive the most pleasure he could from my slow death? I almost laughed. Situational irony...I thought I knew so much about Macavity yet I had only encountered him twice and then very briefly. It had seemed like I'd known him forever.

A long moment passed before I looked up from my paws, remembering where I was and why I was here. Immediately I shifted so as not to be caught off-guard again, a werecat's quick healing inciting a sting in my paws which only added to the burns. They didn't hurt very long before I stood up. Looked around... A warehouse of some kind, dark and empty, whose corridors stretched out before me like an endless tunnel of gray walls and dusty beams. Macavity certainly followed a pattern when it came to his residence.

Another sound. I snapped my gaze to the right, glaring, fangs bared, fur on edge. The sound had of course come from that direction, so naturally the attack came from the other. Again it was not a blow to wound, but the force of the attack as something rammed its full body weight into me knocked me senseless. Slamming to the ground, after the momentum rolled itself out I was on my back, something crouching above me. Strong, yet surprisingly light. I knew who—rather, what—it was before I looked up.

I died.

The face glaring down at me was something straight from Hell. The first, most disturbing, were the male Jellicle's eyes: deep and hollow in their sockets, lifeless like that of a dead thing. Their color was the common deep gold, and something...a tiny glimmer...sparkled in them that I couldn't quite place. It scared me like nothing I'd ever known. What frightened me even more was the recognition of that face.

"Macavity!"

And he grinned. That sick, malevolent, reckless smirk that I hated from the beginning. "Hello, Munkustrap."

In violent reaction my feet rose and kicked at his chest, scrambling away. It didn't matter where. Just as long as I got away from him. Don't ask how I knew those features, which even in the dim light I could see in perfect clarity. What was for certain was that I could never forget that face...the face of evil personified...undisputed malevolence. Depravity. It wasn't his appearance itself that was horrid. Rather, he appeared quite regal and noble at first glance, if a little dirty. It was his presence that was so petrifying. His features...battered and scarred. His eyes...sunken and dead. The tips of his white fangs gleamed beneath his lips, twisted in that sneer. His mane, filthy and tangled, draped over his face and shoulders, only adding to that wild and untamed aura. His fur was almost in accordance with the tortoiseshell cat I had seen beyond this darkness, mottled and ridden with a terrible case of mange that was the dancing colors of fire; not as dark as before. Pushing myself up into a painful crouch I glared at him, watching him return it but never losing that grin. Heaviside blast it if his sheer presence wasn't an exalted terror.

"Finally find the balls to come out here for a friendly chat between neighbors?"

I didn't give in to his taunting. No, I wanted to get out of here as quick as possible. No blood...no confrontation...no further tragedies added to either side. D**n my weakness. When I found my voice I didn't recognize it. "Where's Demeter?"

"Demeter?" he rocked back with a laugh, a hollow sound that echoed through the empty building lit only by the moon beyond. "Is that what you're calling her?"

"Where is she?"

As though this vile incarnate could not sit still for more than a moment, Macavity was constantly pacing. If not, he swayed. Tail, ears, his entire body like a dancing snake, fluid and graceful in the darkness, only his eyes remained stationary. Those eyes...I cannot describe them enough. No mere words can accurately say what those eyes did to me. In some perverse, beserk, unnatural form of penetration those eyes dove into me, seeing everything I had ever experienced, gazing directly into the most intimate depths of my soul and picking through what lie hidden there even to me. I felt my heart falter as his swaying form seem to fill my vision, when he spoke the sound drowning out all else though it was a mere whisper. "She's near," he said, never breaking that stare. Nor could I look away. As much as that stare penetrated and terrified, like looking into the eyes of a demon, it also drew me in. There was something there that enticed me, I daresay...and I have used the term with him before...seduced without my knowing. As though all willpower was being turned over without resistance. I had no idea I was backing away as he stalked forward until my back touched the same edge of the oven I had just escaped.

I couldn't speak again. It was hard enough to breathe. Even so I was afraid to. If I spoke what would I sound like other than a frightened kitten? Would I shatter this intensity that I felt was being built up between us, shattering my mind in the process? I had no idea the power of Macavity's mental influence over me at the time, and yet even saying his mesmerizing hold was absolute seems wrong. There was something indescribably different about the swaying of his hold than what I had always imagined, what I'd experienced before from vampires or other creatures...

I'll repeat: d**n my weakness.

Macavity grinned in a way I can only think of to describe as a lynx. Cunning, sly, knowing, confident, and always evil. Though his scent was ridden with death and decay, stifling male's musk a lethal gas compared to mine or any other I'd never known, I could hear the deep pound of his heart like a background drum to the whispering notes of his voice. His claws which seemed eternally unsheathed scraped across the cement floor as he moved, sidling sideways, tail still swaying, eyes still captured. Crouching down into what could have been a position to pounce—for we both were in our werecat forms—Macavity lifted the white tip of his tail like a beacon in the darkness and sprayed the wall.

I could have gagged at the scent.

"She's around," he said again when his spell was broken, myself too busy grimacing at the putrid odor. Like acid. "She's been asking about you. Almost made we wonder...what is so good about a rich fatcat who acts like an idiot half his life? Doesn't do much with the other half?" A chuckle, nowhere equal to that laugh I so hated. "I guess we could just bring her here and ask?"

By the time I had cleared my eyes and looked up he had vanished, not even the patter of pawsteps to indicate where he had gone. I pulled my weight off the metal wall, letting the silence return around me in its dark curtain, pressing and stifling. I didn't dare call out again, useless as it would have been, but instead listened. My frame of mind was that if I pushed my werecat senses to their limits perhaps I could detect something in this unearthly silence and stillness: a sound, a sight, a scent that would change the deathly monotony of this nothing. But that's all there was: nothing. Not a sound broke the silence...not the drone of voices and cars from outside, not the hum of a fan, not the drip of water. I never thought in Manhattan absolute silence could be possible, yet here it was. It was maddening.

I crept forward, sheathing my claws, dropping down to all fours as I ventured even a short distance from the crematorium that had almost finish me off. Macavity had said he was going to bring Demeter here? Then I should wait...not move...do whatever I could in way of bargaining to get her back. What under Heaviside could I offer Macavity in return? I had already made a mistake in bargaining with that vampire. I resolved to bargain with Macavity only to avoid trouble. He could be sensible, Everlasting Cat willing, and if it came down to a fight...Bastet help me. Nevertheless I crept forward, slow, testing each step before I took it. Nothing I could see inside the building gave me any indication of where I was, where I could go... It was all gray, corroding and covered in dust, except the floor. I noticed, leaning down to sniff at it, that the floor was swept clean. Of course...no dust to stir up and leave footprints in. Very clever. Now if I could just find where Macavity had gone...

I looked up. Chains hung all over from the ceiling, and not just chains...but hooks. Large, curving, razor-sharp sickles. They hung gleaming and pale in the dim light, their wicked points downward. This place must have been a meat locker of some kind. A memory stirred at seeing those hooks...a black she-wolf...Admetus...Gus... strange how one can forget such things. I sat down in a feline crouch, feeling the sweep of emotions returning: the guilt, regret, and anger that had carried me this far. How had I gotten here? Everything considered since that night with the werewolves, how had I ended up in this dark place?

It didn't matter. I shook my head to clear it of the thoughts whizzing by, the drifting faces and emotions. Focus. I could imagine it was only the surroundings that brought on such things. This blasted silence. Macavity didn't let it last much longer.

"You won't want to move around too much," his voice echoed from all directions. "I've got traps set up all over this place."

I bristled, stiffened, but when his voice faded down the long corridors nothing was left. At least he didn't laugh. Yet it was still hard to think, to concentrate. It had to be the place. I was sure of it...the darkness, the silence. The isolation. Disregarding Macavity's warning—or forgetting it, I can't recall—I strode on forward, for seemingly no reason down one of the random hallways. Though I couldn't realize it then it was indeed getting harder to think and rationalize. As though the same dark aura that permeated the warehouse was asserting is influence over my mind, turning my thoughts away from logic and back to instinct. Or just making me go plain mad. If Macavity also resided here I could almost sympathize with him. It hadn't been like this at the last building I'd delved into to find him...or rather, find something that belonged to him. No, it was this place. It brought out the cat, so to say, in such an intensely subtle and horrifyingly natural way that I couldn't have known it.

Yet slinking on all fours I went, as easily as a human might go about on two. Sniffing, listening, I was not searching for Demeter consciously, and yet I was searching. Perhaps my instinct knew something I didn't. Perhaps Heaviside was having its way by guiding me directly towards her. Either way I cannot tell, for though I edged along close to one of the long walls, stopping each time a flash of outside light reflected off a handing chain or sickle to flash my eyes up, lay my ears back, and stiffen in a harsh bristle, I didn't hear her until I was almost upon her. How I had missed the sound of her whimpering breath I don't know. But as though events in my life had an irritating habit of repeating themselves, there she was. It wasn't Demeter, but remarkably close. She was curled behind a water heater of some sort: an enormous round metal tank larger than myself even in werecat form, and I did not see or even hear her until I passed it. Her dark fur blended well with the shadows, only white highlights throughout her coat distinguishing her from the darkness.

I stopped immediately, bristling, tail curling upward into a scorpion-like arch and ready to attack as the sound of her rapid breathing was like a sudden blow to the face. My mind woke up, flickering back into thought and logic and away from the urge to slink against the walls, eyes darting at every minute detail. Yet it still took a moment for me to realize, as I stood there, towering over her in my four-legged stance, staring with ears and whiskers pressed forward, body rigid, tail curled and fur bristling. I could feel my black lips part and my tongue slide out to lick my whiskers, passing by ready and awaiting fangs. Fangs razor sharp, ready to tear flesh and claws ready to gouge. I could hear her little heart beat rapidly from where she had curled up as small as possible between the water tank and the wall, in werecat form, gazing up in absolute fear through her arms held up like a shield. Her eyes were remarkably wide, open, glistening in the darkness...

What am I doing?!?!

I snarled to wake myself up, jerking my eyes away and shaking my head, not sparing a few paw swipes to the side of my muzzle as well. She squeaked in fear at my sudden snarl which brought my attention back to her, and immediately I swept down to her side, curling my tail around her feet as I set a gentle black hand on her trembling shoulder. "Shhh," I purred, seeing her try to curl down even smaller. "It's alright...don't be frightened."

Remarkably her trembling seemed to stop, and she peeked out at me again. Her eyes, so wide with a kitten's curiosity and innocence, blinked once as she gazed up at me. Her eyes were strangely disturbing in the dim light of the warehouse. They possessed a light of their own; a tiny glimmer. Not so the same as I'd seen in Macavity, yet it seemed to express a knowing despite her obvious youth. And, I daresay, their color was an exotic shade I'd never seen in a werecat before: almost violet. Then again, it may have been the light.

She had to have been even younger than Demeter when I had stumbled upon her. Her fur, short and soft yet maintaining that fluffy spikiness of a newborn kitten, was for the most part black, tinged from what I could see with bits of red and brown, highlighted in places with white included her chest and a plain spot on her hip. Her body, the rest of her, was so thin and fragile with youth I was always afraid to put my arms back around her when se flung her arms up and around my neck, pulling herself close with a small cry of delight. "I knew someone was coming!" she whispered chokily, burying her face into my silver-striped fur. "I knew he couldn't keep me here for long...someone would get me out."

I gently worked my hands between us to pry her away, just enough to meet her face again. I smiled, however hesitantly, fearing to use much force as I felt I might break her. She couldn't have been much more than a ten or eleven year old child, and yet her eyes spoke of an age much older, much wiser. I could have thought of a much better time and place to contemplate it than here and now.

"I'm Munkustrap," I told her gently, neither of us raising our voices much over a whisper. "Do you have a name?"

"Of course," she laughed. Such a laugh in this place was sweet and welcome. "Sillabub."

"Sillabub," I repeated, shifting my weight so I was back on my feet. Quickly I glanced around, having lost my guard so suddenly at the sight of her. I still feared Macavity's return, what state Demeter would be in, and yet this kitten Sillabub seemed to have lost all her fear in that one moment. So long as she still clung to my shoulder, her smile was brilliant. I could only wish to have her ignorance. "How long have you been here?" I asked, still leaning out to glare down both directions of the long hall.

"Only a few days," she answered simply, reassuring, as though having read my thoughts and worries about Macavity having done to her what he had done to Demeter. "Macavity said he didn't want to hurt me, but I knew someone would come and save me. I knew it." She hugged me tight again, and all I could do was look on in amazement. Amazement at her confidence even here. Amazement at Macavity's continuing audacity. Amazement that I was sitting here like an invalid trying to sort my thoughts.

I breathed her name again, weary, worried, and as though sensing my distress Sillabub calmed, releasing her grip about my shoulder to draw back and out of the way, yet not retreating to the shadows through which she had come. Even if she was Gifted, those kind of things were not known to show in kittens until they grew older. "Don't worry," I told her with a purr as she dropped to all fours at my side. "We'll find a way out of here."

She grinned, flicking her black and white tail. "I know."

Side by side the two of us crept out and headed back for the crematorium. I continued to walk slowly, on all fours, and Sillabub remained diligent at my flank, just as silent and watchful as I. As though having her near was a reassurance, that her own confidence was a contagious one, or perhaps just to not be alone any longer, I felt calmer about the entire thing. That did not stop my nausea when I thought of Demeter, alone, in Macavity's claws. Yet I noticed the warehouse seemed to be growing lighter, the stark darkness of when I came now at least lightening to where most of the area could be seen. It was a relief. Sillabub, the fading darkness...there was no longer such a strain upon my mind. Perhaps dawn was approaching. There were no windows near the enormous oven that had almost done me in, but still there was that feeling of a new day approaching: daylight, and safety...

"C'mon," Sillabub mewed when the crematorium was in sight, bounding ahead a few paces. "I remember the way Macavity gets out. It's right up here!"

"No!" I hissed, halting her in her tracks. She looked back at me, startled. I did not mean to sound harsh, yet still the urge was strong to not trust any cat found in Macavity's lair. Even if her youthful appearance and radiating aura was more than enough to banish all doubt form my mind... "No," I said again, catching up to her, casting a wary glance back as the sound of my voice bounced off the walls, fading down the long corridors into the distance. What was taking Macavity this long? Perhaps he was already back, watching, waiting. Would he even let me live if he knew I would be taking Sillabub out of this place as well? Demeter alone didn't seem a likely option, let alone another... "I have to find someone else."

"Macavity?" Sillabub whispered, crouching low as I approached.

"No, someone else..."

"Is it the girl?"

I looked at her, wishing, hoping she could tell me something about Demeter. How to find her...her condition... Yet the sorrow returned in her gaze was answer enough, and all I could do was look away and nod. "Yes..."

I felt her tiny white hand pat my shoulder fur, but I wouldn't look back. "Macavity won't kill her..."

I could have laughed, though it would not have been from humor. Bombalurina had tried to tell me something similar, and I hadn't believed her. I still didn't believe it. Death would have been a _solution_ to her problems. I shook my head, scorning. "How do you know?"

"Because he loves her."

That was when I looked back, sharply, obviously startling the kitten with my show of ferocity. "How can you possibly say that?" I growled. "How could Macavity love anyone? Or anything?"

Sillabub drew breath to answer, and yet the reply did not come from her. Behind me. A deeper, rumbling, frightening and sensual voice at once. With a squeak of fear Sillabub dove beneath me, making herself small, almost the exact moment I whirled to see him. Standing there, leaning in werecat form with all the casual aloofness of the world against the oven.

"Good question," Macavity said, his arms crossed over his chest and tail flicking behind him. Immediately I took up my stance to fight, rising up to two legs, glaring with such absolute hatred at his carefree attitude I would have loved to cut that grin from his battered face with my own claws, as slow as possible. It's strange that in facing Macavity one can become so much like him. Much more time in the darkness of this place and I would have gone mad, like him. Though if one could see him now they would see nothing but sanity. Sanity and intelligence. He laughed of course as I stared at him, meeting his eyes fierce with challenge. That blasted laugh...

"Where's Demeter?" I demanded immediately.

Mocking my anger, mocking my feelings for her, mocking my very presence, Macavity shrugged lightly and with a flick of one black hand indicated over his shoulder. I followed his direction, seeing an open doorway I had not noticed before. That seemed the case with many things around here. Then when I tried to calm my own hot breath I heard it: her crying. Be it a trick or genuine, I didn't care. I was pulled to her distress as though on a tether. I had to get to her...to see her...make sure she wasn't harmed...Heaviside help Macavity if she was... "Demeter!"

"I wouldn't," Macavity said, quiet and direct, in a tone of voice that I would have otherwise ignored entirely if it hadn't of suddenly stopped my advances. Indeed, the moment he spoke those words I couldn't move. It was not a stifling kind of imprisonment, but simply that my body was no longer at the control of my mind. I whipped my gaze to Macavity, snarling horribly, and would have attacked him then and there if I could. Macavity acknowledged my mounting fury with a bored glance, then swiveled to fix it upon a trembling Sillabub. "Sillabub," he said, as a commander speaks to an officer, then nodded in the same direction of the doorway. Without a sound Sillabub gasped and scrambled to her feet to dash past me, disappearing into the open doorway which slammed close immediately after she had gone. My heart reached out, wanting to push the door back open, but not even my throat would work.

"Now then," the Mystery Cat went on. Immediately my body unlocked and I collapsed to the floor with a loud grunt of pain as all air emptied my lungs in one breath, cursing and snarling silently as I tried to pick myself back up. "Now that the kids are gone the adults can have their little talk." He swept on by me, the filthy and ragged white tip of his tail smacking my face as he did so. I swiped my claws out at him, but in my sluggishness missed by far. Again he laughed at my desperate attempts. "I hope you put up a good fight, stubborn as you are, Stripes."

"I don't want to fight," I gasped, ignoring the sharp stab of pain up my side as I straightened. I fixed my eyes upon him where he stood, his back to me, arms crossed over his chest as he stared down one of the long hallways that branched off this larger room for the crematorium. Only his tail moved now. "I want Demeter, and Sillabub, and to get out of here." I could feel my voice calming, steadier, as I felt my breath slow. At least he was listening. "I don't want to fight..."

"Pity," was his answer. Simple. Frank. His back was still turned, not at all worried about me. I could attack him easily now if I wanted to, perhaps at least knock him senseless enough to grab Demeter and Sillabub and get out of here. How could I even consider he would let us leave? I began to wonder, suddenly, why didn't I _want_ to fight? All I had heard about this Jellicle, what he did to us and Demeter, why should I want nothing less than to shred his throat? Perhaps I knew I couldn't fight him. I had come here without a plan, without strategy or even knowledge of what I was doing, and here was where it got me. My one and only fear was Demeter and the new acquaintance of Sillabub...if I failed, would they pay for my reckless impulsiveness. Then what would the tribe do? Against Macavity... My thoughts were broken when he again spoke. "I expected more from a Jellicle like you."

"Like me?" I repeated, slowly, backing away on what I hoped were silent, undetectable steps even to feline ears. His back was turned. I was closer to that door.

"You're the so-called leader of the uptown Jellicles, right? Aren't you supposed to fight your opponents?"

"Not if I can avoid it."

He chuckled. "That's a mistake, I'll tell you now." I stopped, wary, as I watched him extend one leg to the side, a graceful move no less than a dancer's. He held it there. Steady. Unwavering. What was going through his head now? Yet I was glad not to see his face, those eyes. "You know, I've heard so much about you...I've been wanting to meet you for a long time."

My turn for sarcasm. "I hope I met your expectations."

"No. Not really."

I didn't care what he said. Macavity couldn't taunt me...I wouldn't let him. I had no time for mind games, or arguments. I wanted to get out of here. With Demeter. With Sillabub. Without any bloodshed. I continued to back up, tail extended out behind me to feel my way while all other senses remained solely upon him. I wasn't as focused as I should have been. Otherwise I would have seen it. I would have known...

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he suddenly growled, and immediately I halted. This time of my own will. Then he turned, and his eyes...his eyes fixed upon me. Dead and lifeless, they still held such intensity that halted my breath. I couldn't move in any way to resist, couldn't block his image from my mind...his words... "You know my song, don't you?" he purred, so low and rumbling. "The one I didn't write? _Macavity's not there_?"

I couldn't answer. How could I? His voice incited something inside me, some primal urge that was stronger than instinct and more convincing than logic. As when the vampires swayed their power over us werecats in their battle among each other, I found myself wanting to do strange things. Feline things. To be there with Macavity in his wild, undomesticated aura. To run at his side through the dark city, hunt and kill, control all those lesser than I. These things I was thinking, wondering and yet considering, as I watched. Macavity looked away from me, uncaring, mocking, and began his dance.

I have said it before: no matter who I met, Jellicle or non, I never thought of them as being entirely evil or entirely good. There is always an ironic kindness is evil; good is tainted even if in the least bit. And no matter how much I may have hated it, Macavity was no exception. I can say it now, though I would never have allowed it then, that his evil was beauty. His song, his dance, his intelligence...beautiful. I could only stand back and watch as he moved, the dancer's grace combined with feline skill so often found in us Jellicles paling in comparison. There was a passion in his movements, even in their slow, mesmerizing pace; their majesty was beautiful ashes, blown on the wind beneath a waning full moon. Heaviside, of all cats to become sympathetic toward I found myself admiring Macavity. Surely there was a method to his said madness, what he had done. After all, any crime ever committed, no matter how great or heinous, is—in the criminal's mind at least—justified.

I don't think there's a human in existence who truly appreciates and understands the power of song and dance like a Jellicle can. It's not just a form of art for us, it's part of our everyday lives. Our culture. It's how we preserve our history: through movement and singing. I can say here that Macavity simply danced before me, hypnotizing me in the process, but that in no way nears the impact his movement truly had. The dancing fire of his coat flowed like water, and for all the pages I could write about what the sight of it did to me, how it impacted, perhaps learned something about myself in the process, I'll not allow him the dignity of it. How much time passed before he had finished, I don't know.

"I'm a vampire, you know."

That didn't surprise me. It actually explained a lot.

"I can tell you things about yourself that you never knew; that you would never know without me."

I couldn't find it within myself to answer. I could only watch as he straightened, stretched, dragged a sandpaper tongue through his mottled, mange-ridden fur. What could I say? If Macavity wanted to turn our meeting into a philosophical discussion, let him. I had to admit I was the least bit intrigued about what he had to say. After hearing about him for so long, growing with his renown and ill fame, to finally see him face to face, hear his voice—as dangerous as it was—the curiosity was overpowering. Then again, we all know what curiosity did to the cat.

"Do you remember your first change?" he suddenly snapped, fixing me with a glare that could pierce glass. Again, I didn't answer. I couldn't. I met his gaze, felt my heart being squeezed as he flexed his claws. "I remember mine. It was after I became a vampire..."

A vampire as well as a Jellicle. Of the tales I'd read about such creatures none were good. As rare as they were insane, the poor wretches were immortal, having the best powers of both the undead and werecats. What would drive a vampire to embrace a Jellicle as one of their own I can only guess...

"Do you have any idea what it's like?" he hissed, flexing his claws, shuddering as though the very thought of what he spoke of sent him to most rapturous euphorias. "To be a feline suddenly after living so long in a confining body of humanity? The power...the strength...the freedom!" Laughing deep-throatedly, he spun on one black foot, clawing the air with his claws...like talons. "And then the powers of the vampires...God, Munkustrap, I couldn't begin to explain it to you..." Breathing out in a long, low purr, he ran his claws down his sides, turning to gaze back down the hall.

I was mesmerized as I watched him, and even more: I was curious. Why would he want to explain it to me? What was it he was trying to tell me? Being a Jellicle was wonderful...that, I cannot deny entirely. When I was younger, the _rach'arl_, the overwhelming rush of power that accompanied those first changes. Closing my eyes I could almost remember them...

"Running the alleys...tasting the blood of creatures weaker than you...getting away with murder...all the pleasures of the night yours for the taking. Imagine the most wonderful lust for life, and unable to quench it until you're covered in fur...."

Opening my eyes again, I saw he was looking at me. The strangest of expressions beset his face. I couldn't quite place...

"Imagine it, Munkustrap...the most power and drive you've ever known. The things you could accomplish! Being the night! Darkness and stealth in one body! The perfect predator...and you're wasting it by sitting in that penthouse while letting the humans take over your island."

He drew closer, and I shrank back unconsciously, unable to tear my eyes from him. "What are you saying...?" Barely a whisper, I couldn't have heard myself in human form.

He stood before me, eyes deep and burning right through my entire self. "You don't know what it's like to live as a Jellicle, Munkustrap. Let me show you..." He brought up one tar-black hand, setting it close to my own. "I can show you what it's like to truly _live_..."

I didn't think of it at the time, but ironically so many had told me that same thing...and they all failed. But for Macavity there was no refusal. Placing his hands on both sides of my face, strands of his mane fell over his eyes as he leaned forward, placing his forehead against mine. My vision darkened.

But only for a moment.

_Fire_..._blood_..._pain_..._death_...

It was all around me. Blood coated my fur like tar, burning, stinging, eating away at my flesh and bones like acid. The putrid scent of death rose from my burning flesh, and around me: a thousand screams of agony rising from twisted, wretched creatures. Some lay mauled, throats slashed, bodies ravished by flaming demons and distorted beyond identification. Organs and tissue lay draped over the dead limbs of burning trees, impaled on iron stakes, wretched bodies clawing their way towards me: their other halves laying still yards behind them. From their open-mouthed screams vile blackness poured...insects, melted asphalt, poisons of every nature, flowing into a river of black that circled the mountain of skulls I stood on, the blood of millions dripping from my claws and penetrating my fur.

But more than all this was the fire inside.

Deep inside me, it burned, invading the rest of my body, my soul, igniting everything with its dark flame of unspeakable power. Like a madness it spread, stifling all my senses with the sensation of longing, power, invincibility...so intense I couldn't help but tremble. And then, gazing out as the sky as black as blood, the sun whose red was the deepest scarlet, it exploded. The wails below me were drowned by my roar, grabbing my head with blood-laden claws as I felt myself exposed to the most extreme power...power so raw Heaviside itself was nothing to me. And in those few moment of exposure to that power...I knew...I knew divinity...

Macavity and I flew back from each other. I must have been screaming. Falling onto my back, I heaved for breath, clutching my chest where I could feel my heart ready to explode. Limp with exhaustion, in the absence of that power I was nothing but weak, limp and exposed to a million things that could kill me. Simple flesh and bone...I might as well have died there, then, instead of pushing my feeble self up to see Macavity. He was pushing himself up as well, dazed, weak. The sight of him I couldn't stand.

"_Heaviside d**n you_!"

There was no more listening. No more curiosity. His power over me had broken, and I wasn't going to waste any more time. Gathering my feet under me, I leaped for him and, claws digging into his shoulders, slammed the other tom with the most brutal force against the wall. I should have killed him... My fangs were at his throat. All it would take was one bite. One simple clench of my jaws, and this evil would be defeated.

I didn't.

And he laughed.

"Do it," he said, that sensual voice low and hissing, eyes blazing with insane fires, daring me to try to even take his life. It would have been so easy...I had killed before... "You know you want to," he growled, eyes slitted dangerously as they met mine. "Go on. Kill me."

As much as I wanted it, to taste his blood, watch him die, take revenge for Demeter, my breathing only turned ragged as I stared at his eyes...those eyes that hypnotized. "Why," I whispered in broken breaths, already feeling his power extend out towards me, "did you show me those things?" Drawing another breath to steady myself, I concentrated on countering his power...at least, long enough to get an answer. "What do you want _with me_?!"

He laughed again.

"What do I want with _you_?!" he threw back his head, cackling insanely. "_What do I want with you_?! As far as I remember, _Blakeney_, you were the one who took Demeter from me..." Baring his fangs, his reptilian tongue ran over his whiskers, just grazing mine. That grin again. The echo of that laugh... "I thought a cat such as yourself would have appreciated what I had to offer."

With all my strength I sank my claws into his shoulders, his own vile black hands clutching mine without the same force. A cat such as myself? What Macavity had to offer. I told myself not to think about it...not to let myself fall into his head games. Yet, I noticed it then, and couldn't help it... How much he and I seemed alike. I knew what he was thinking, and why, and—what was even worse—I could understand, relate. Heaviside help me, he knew it.

"You see what I mean," he grinned, his ivory fangs like sabers gleaming in the light. His hands, their claws permanently unsheathed, began to move through the fur of my shoulders. They did not gouge as mine did (without much effect), but rather they stroked, patted, tapped out a tune that rang familiar in my mind. "A cat like yourself...go on, admit it: you know what Jellicles are capable of as well as I. You call yourself a historian. Then tell me: why was it our kind who were worshipped in the Ancient Land of Egypt above the wolves? Above the vampires? Throughout history, why have we survived the worst hardships when others have died out? Tell me...you know. Jellicles were gods once. We can be it again...if you help me..."

I couldn't listen to it anymore. I snarled, withdrew my claws from his shoulders to draw back. I wanted to smack the grin from his face, claw apart the idea he'd presented before me. How could he consider such a thing? No, we were nothing alike! I reached my claws back across Manhattan somewhere, driven by the force and power of an anger so heated I could have taken on a pack of werewolves myself and come out unscathed. Then I struck, claws raking, fury venting, taking my revenge. For Demeter. For Bombalurina.

Rather, I tried to.

A vampire's speed is faster than light. Faster than darkness. Macavity's defense was so rapid and efficient I was blocked, knocked away before I had even registered it consciously. Then he attacked. A demon straight from the dark end of Heaviside, like a tiger he pounced: claws outstretched, fangs gaping as he fell onto me from above, his feline roar one to deafen. Red-hot talons raked my shoulders, sabre-length fangs snapped at my throat. I lifted my own in defense, tossing my mind and conscious thought into oblivion as instinct took over. I surrendered to it: quite possibly the only thing that saved me. I don't know how I freed myself from beneath him, scrambled up and away. I didn't linger to find out. Back on my feet I bolted for the door, threw my weight against it to break it from its hinges to which it complied in a shattering explosion of splinters. Macavity wanted me to get into that room, I knew. Otherwise I would have never reached it.

Sillabub's wide eyes shot immediately up from where she was crouched, still a tiny werecat, over another form: a form of golden fur. Demeter was curled, small and shivering, in a position frighteningly similar to when I first saw her. Panting for breath, ignoring any wounds that may have been visible, I fell to their sides. Sillabub gasped something, but I ignored her. "Demeter," I whispered, in my panic that Macavity would soon be upon us not thinking before I reached out for her, taking her shoulders to pull her up. Her body was limp and frail, shaking with sobs. She tried to turn her face and push me away, repeating a broken and choking "No," that I did not heed. She was in my arms again, and that was all that mattered.

"Demeter," I said again, lifting her face to mine. I saw her eyes. In the dim light, their flash of green, the terror they held in their depths. In the raging, hurtling path of thought my mind plunged forever forward on, unchecked and unknowing of what depths it might reach, I knew I had caused this. I had let this happen. It was chaos, madness, but in Demeter there was something worse. I could see it. Like a sunset she had sunk into the depths of the insanity Macavity thrived in. He had pulled her there, nearly done the same with myself, and it was entirely my fault. I clenched my eyes shut in an effort to block the guilt, trying to convince myself I could rescue her. I could bring her back. I held her as she collapsed into me, her weeping unchecked, tears of relief or sorrow as they may be. For now all that mattered was she was here. I was there to protect her. I reached down to encircle her hips, much thinner than I ever remembered, to pull her closer, never letting go. She whimpered as I did, jerking away from contact. Too late did I see why.

I drew a breath sharply as my hand touched something warm and wet. Drawing back, I saw the tips of my fingers glisten in the dim light. I smelled it. Blood. Looking down, I saw more of the red liquid running between Demeter's thighs. And the scent that covered her there...a familiar burning sting in my nostrils. Oh Bast...

"Heaviside," I gasped, eyes wide as Demeter fell heavily against me, absolutely melted, sobbing bitterly. I hugged her tighter than I'd ever done before, voice choking with anger where my eyes were clenched shut in her mane. "Heaviside, Demeter, what did he do to you?"

"She was in here," Sillabub whispered, the one contact that brought me back to reality from this world of madness I felt myself sinking to. I didn't say anything in reply. I stood, pulling Demeter into my arms when her legs seemed unwilling to stand and support the rest of her. Slowly, carefully, she nestled down against me. I told her everything would be alright, and for Sillabub to lead the way out. Out and away. Away from Macavity and this place, back to the daylight where we all belonged and would be safe.

"What about the old one?" Sillabub whispered, even in her quiet, kitten-soft voice piercing my thoughts like a dagger. If I didn't get out of here I would go insane myself. I could see those images blasted into my mind again, hear Macavity's laugh. Nothing less than expected from delving into the lair of the demon and emerging insane. Old one? She must have meant Macavity... "Leave him," I answered. Macavity with the scent of decay in his fur, like a vampire. A thousand years old...two hundred years old...what did it matter? If he would only die.

"Not him," Sillabub piped, heading for the doorway I had smashed, cautiously. I seemed too occupied with Demeter to think much else, about Macavity and the danger he might still present. "Her."

"That's enough, Sillabub," I wheezed, covering Demeter's mane, her vulnerable side. I didn't care who she was talking about. It didn't matter to me. "Let's get out of here."


	15. Munkustrap: WereCats 15

****

Munkustrap – Part Fifteen

Normally I would call it strange that I don't remember the way out of Macavity's lair that Sillabub led us through, nor do I remember going through it, yet when Macavity is involved at all one must easily grow used to the fact that things are strange. I couldn't account for my thoughts at the time, anyway. What I was thinking exactly at that time we emerged through a construction shaft, back up onto the street which was still clad in the darkness of night, I don't know. I had no idea how long I had been down there in that fathomless pit of Hell, what time it was when we emerged, but in the grand scheme of what was to take place that night it didn't matter. The night was far from over.

I stopped Sillabub just below the street surface to switch our places, myself climbing out onto the sidewalk with Demeter still held tight against my chest, her arms around my neck. She had gone still over the duration of the climb, her sobbings ceased into a stony silence which only succeeded in furthering my worry and the wear upon my nerves. It was as though she was dead, her werecat features buried into my fur where I could not see them, where it looked like she couldn't breathe. I climbed out of the square cut in the city sidewalk slowly, one arm kept dutifully around her as my senses scanned the area thoroughly before pulling us the rest of the way out. The street seemed otherwise silent, dark, void of even a scurrying rat or buzzing fly. Reaching back in I helped Sillabub out, deeming it safe. Now all that remained was to get back to my own territory...

Had I sensed them before I would not have reacted so violently. But seeing them appear so close, unable to notice them when they were at a greater distance, played upon a mixture of worn nerves and taut paranoia, and without even knowing the faces who approached in a group from an alley on the same side of the street I snarled viscously and backed away, ready to fight. Forcing Sillabub behind me I glared at the tall, dark figures, even after one of them called out taking a moment before I realized...

"Hunter! It's us..."

I don't know how, why, or when they had gotten there. Nor did I care. I can't say I was happy to see them at that moment, but looking back on it now I don't know how I could have felt anything otherwise. I hurriedly deposited Demeter into the safety of Bombalurina's arms, nudging Sillabub into Alonzo's immediately after. "Take them and get out of here."

I could hear the protest rise in Tugger's throat, see the worry in Mistoffelees's white face, but I would allow no argument. Seeing the five of them there—Bombalurina, Tugger, Alonzo, Mistoffelees, and Plato—did something to me. Like a misplaced note in an otherwise beautiful aria that sends the rest into hopeless oblivion, standing out in all its horridness despite the beauty of the rest of the piece, it struck a sudden chord in my mind. It made absolutely no sense, to me or to anyone else should I try and explain it, but the effect was profound. I saw them for the first time..._really_ saw them. Not as faces, fur patterns, and personalities, but as what they were. Jellicles. Individuals. Friends whom I had a duty to protect from all evils no matter what the cost. I couldn't walk away from this and leave Macavity unpunished. Alive. I may not have been sane. I doubt seriously that I was that night. But I met Bombalurina's eyes that night as I told them to leave, Tugger's and Plato's, and I saw them. As though I'd never seen them before. They turned, slowly but surely, and left, disappearing back into the night where true Jellicles belonged. Me? I turned the other way.

I said before that I wanted to get in and out of this without much conflict. Now I threw that resolve into the litter box, and turned back inside for Macavity.

He was still there, as well, leaning against the large door to the crematory oven without a care in the world. In his hand, scratching the tip against his chin, was a loaded pistol.

"I'm not going to pretend I'm so evil I don't know what's driving you to do all this," he said as I slipped back into the place, sounding so much as though normal conversation it made my blood boil. "I understand totally."

"How so?" I positioned myself in the doorway to the room where I had found Demeter, able to see Macavity and yet able to easily duck back in and get out should he try anything. It was a small comfort to feel prepared amid the feeling of madness, even if it was just in my mind. Very small.

"You and I have a lot in common."

I could say I was intrigued. I could say I was furious. I could name a lot of emotions that his one declaration sent through my mind and I don't think any of them would have been accurate. With Macavity involved I have realized that nothing can be certain. I couldn't be certain of my sanity as I stood there in his presence, his lair, his entire world dominated by his rules. I couldn't be certain of my thoughts because they might not be my own. They could be his, or he could read and taint them. There were no assurances that I would walk out of this dark section of Hell alive and ever see Demeter again. That last thought was sobering, at best, amid this feeling of a certain distance. A distance...from feeling my body, feeling alive and able to think clearly. Like the madnesses of my youth it was this place, his aura, that were saturating and finding their ways into the depths of my mind. I couldn't remember the anger that had so captured me only a moment ago when seeing Demeter's rape, hearing Sillabub speak of some old female, and without that anger to draw from I began to wonder if there was really a reason I should be down here at all.

To put it plainly: I was slowly going insane.

"Do we?" I said, much in the same manner as his conversational tone. I had come back down here alone, without a plan, and knew not what else to do.

Macavity's expressions shifted with such projection and accuracy they could have rivaled Gus's. His face could be read like a book from seeing the slightest twitch of his whiskers, the light in his eyes, the tilt of his ears. He wanted it that way; picture perfect masks to hide his true thoughts. For even in that moment Macavity was acting strangely. He was acting as I felt: distant and without course. He waved the gun about as though it were any other harmless object, scratching the side of his head with it's tip, chewing on the barrel, gesturing and pointing. "Of course we do," he answered with a sniff, his lean against the cold metal crematory ever the more careless. His feet crossed and weight against his back, he was in no position to pounce. His arms were crossed over his chest, head tilted to one side. In his stance and tone there was no menace, only honest communication. Heaviside, what a demon. "In certain ways, I mean. We're both passionate about what we do, eh? You want to understand what it is to be a Jellicle, and I know. You're protective over your territory as am I. Possessive, intelligent, striving for similar goals if only on different levels."

"I find it hard that I'm anything at all like you."

Macavity only shrugged. In his carelessness there was something infinitely more sinister than if he'd taunted me openly. The notion of Macavity and I relating on any subject, no matter how abstract, when I thought of what he was...it was awful. "I know. You're probably right. I'm just saying a lot of the things you'd expect someone like me to..."

Can't say much for his ego, either. Digging my claws into the wooden doorframe around me I tried to concentrate through the disorienting haze, and failed miserably. "Then quit with the deceptions."

"Why are we talking at all?" Macavity rebounded in a flash of sarcasm, his tail flicking whip-like as he watched me shake my head and rub my eyes, telling myself to concentrate. Why I couldn't was the utmost frustration. "I know you came back down here to kill me. Or try. Do whatever you can for Desere and all that heroic stuff." He sniffed again in contempt. "Nothing I haven't seen before."

"I could have guessed I wouldn't be the first to shred your miserable throat," I growled, somehow managing to focus, even slightly. Lifting my eyes to him I saw his grin, his fangs, those sensuously vile eyes. He tapped his black claws, like talons, against his arm.

"Definitely," was his purring answer. "They've lined up a mile long to have a chance at me." He started moving forward, pacing, swaying, simple movements that were so irritating. "What to know what they've done to me over the years, Munkustrap? I've been shot, stabbed, poisoned, electrocuted, hung, burned, whipped, disemboweled, drowned, crushed, thrown off of buildings, buried alive, and fed to a pit of crocodiles."

"You seem to draw that kind of attention." I wasn't impressed.

"Oh, that was only what the humans did. Now we get into the vampires and whatnot, it gets worse." He nodded, turning his eyes down in thoughtfulness as he went back, reflecting on the past, hardly caring that I was standing before him now. "Of course the first time I died was from a gunshot...hard to remember exactly. Then lucky me gets a base case of Fleas..."

"Yet here you are."

"I always come back for more." Finally he looked up at me with those eyes, grinning, ears flattened back as though he didn't look devilish enough. "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." I flexed my claws into my palms, drawing blood and just enough pain to keep my wits about me. I couldn't get pulled in again, won over by his influence. Yet I remembered those visions he had showed me...the power... In the darker side that resides in all of us, even Bastet herself, I wanted to feel it again. The temptation was there now, before me, and indeed it was very tempting. I had Demeter and Sillabub to help me before, but now I was alone. I couldn't think about them.

"And you're problem, among many," he went on, voice rumbling into my chest, "is you're too human."

"Too human?"

"You act like one too much, Munkustrap. Be a cat once in awhile. Listen to your instincts. You might be surprised how well it'll...clear your perception." There was a lilt in his voice, as his sandpaper tongue ran over crooked whiskers. A suggestion...I wouldn't look at his eyes. "It's helped me a lot."

"Helped you do what?" I snapped, voice emitting from my throat much harsher than I had intended it to. "I don't want advice from you, Macavity, I want answers."

"Is that all?" Macavity tossed his arms in the air, stepping away. "Ask and ye shall receive."

"Why Demeter? And why Bombalurina and Sillabub? Why any of them?"

"I thought it was obvious. I wanted an heir. Still do, really. Someone I could teach what I know, what I've learned, to. It gets lonely down here in the gutter, you know. We street cats can't afford the same luxurious lifestyle as you where women flaunt themselves at your feet like wanton b****es. I tried Bombalurina first but she couldn't do anything for me. Barren, it seems, though she was quite fun. I tried getting another...Demeter. Too young, I guess. Too young and too scared. After you snatched her I figured instead of making my own kitten I'd steal someone else's and raise it. Hence Sillabub. But again your sorry tail decided to interfere..."

I couldn't believe I was listening to this. This...appalling course of action and thought that had caused us so much. I was standing here listening to it told like any everyday story. Furthermore, I was putting up with it, which was more infuriating than anything else. To have used those queens I knew and loved in my own way for such a reason so vulgar, so demented. Still I felt no surging madness, no _rach'arl_ to break me from the hazy stupor and attack, claw that grin from his face. No matter how much I wanted to. Macavity lowered his eyes at me, at the same time raising the gun.

"You'd have saved yourself a lot of trouble just minding your own business, Stripes." The gun's barrel was level with my forehead, but I wouldn't flinch away. In a useless act of defiance I stared him down, body growing tense as his claws tapped against the weapon's trigger. "I'm a reasonable cat, but also very...very...jealous..."

I heard the crack of the gun firing in the fractions of milliseconds before it exploded and I ducked. The fight commenced from there. What was I thinking? There was no thought. Only action, movement, driven by instinct and reflexes without so much as a balance of logical motivation. Both Macavity and I leaped forward, meeting somewhere in midair with Macavity's hind claws in my stomach. Flexed fully, he dug in deep and tore back, ripping through fur and flesh, the same time my jaws closed over his weapon of choice and crushed both metal and bone as I clenched down. Macavity's yeowl pierced the night air, my own stifled only because it was blocked by his wrist. We went down together, slashing and clawing, brawling like true cats as we held crushing grips with claws and teeth and raked with our back feet. Aggravated damage came from the biting holds of throats, claws dug into shoulders and chests, gouging soft, vulnerable bellies as we rolled against the hard cement floor. At some part when Macavity had me down I snapped my eyes shut against a spatter of warm redness, my mind going back...back to a warehouse inhabited by werewolves. A night when an innocent human had lost his life. A night when Admetus also lost his and Inferno her tail. A warehouse where there was strength, madness,_ rach'arl_...and it came back.

The fires hurtled through my blood faster and hotter than any of Heaviside's divine light. The madness was a welcoming release: a thing I could give control of my body over to so I would not feel the pain of Macavity's razor claws in my guts, his teeth slicing the soft fur of my throat, my own efforts to throw him off of me and against the wall, tearing, slashing. There was no end to the depths I sank to. There was something...I had that iron meathook in my hand again. Something greater than myself was at stake: the lives of the others, their safety and the security of the island. Perhaps the world. Yet the battle raged on, two werecats in their solitude. Personally I would have given anything—my soul to the oldest of vampires—if it meant this Jellicle's destruction.

Somewhere in the course of the brawl I was slammed down onto my back, my skull connecting with something hard and metal that made the world spin. Senseless, breathless, my body went limp quite willingly in defeat, ready to give up though my mind was not so weak. Yeowling out in feline agony I arched my back against the sink of Macavity's talons, clenching my eyes shut against the hot blow of his breath where he crouched over me, panting, as ridden with bloody wounds as I was. Turning his head to the side Macavity spit and blew air through his nostrils, clearing them of gore. "Son of a..." he snarled, glaring back down at me when I ventured to look again. A clawed black paw found a clean spot in the unprotected softness of my gut and dug in with a sheer force, tearing back with atrocious results. I screamed, reaching up as though to push him away though it did little good. Vision beginning to grow horribly clear as the madnesses began to vanish I saw Macavity extend one black hand. His gun came hurtling back into his palm of an unseen force which he did not hesitate in shoving under my chin.

"You put up a good fight, I'll admit," he said in a breathless laugh, grinning despite the battered appearance of his own self. Falling still as though to allow us both to slow racing pulses, I heard his words distantly through the throe. "Now I want you to think. Think for a minute...I really want you to." I could do anything _but_ think, and the fact Macavity outright said he wanted it was reason enough not to. "I've had the chance to do this because its happened to me so many times, but...but consider this a favor to you. You're about to die. I want you to know that. Really...know that. Now..." His tongue lolled from pants as he shoved the gun's tip up, pushing my head back to expose a white throat. "Think about everything you're going to miss. Demeter, Bombalurina, all those cats... Think about everything you've wanted to do but never have. Now you won't be able to. Think about it..." A demented grin broke over his face amid the rasping laughs, the fires in his eyes not of reality. "If I let you live this would be the greatest favor anyone could do for you." He withdrew the gun roughly, licking a stain of red from his muzzle. "Thank me."

I didn't think, refused to allow myself to. I clenched my eyes shut again and turned my head away, feeling the waves of pain sharpen as cognizance came back slowly but surely. "D**n you..." I whispered. "D**n you, d**n you, d**n you..."

"Don't waste your breath. I'm already there." I felt him lean forward, the stench of him dizzying my senses, his foul hot breath reeking of blood and gore wafting through my whiskers. Face turned away, he had easy access to my ear, and whispered into it after a considerate pause: "Every woman you've had in your life...Desere, Gwyn, Adelle, your mother...I've had three times over."

At that moment I felt such hatred I could I have clawed Heaviside itself to pieces from sheer will. I whipped my face back to meet his, fangs snapping shut like a steel trap. "You're insane!" I snarled of raw animosity. Blinded by such wrath I didn't recognize his mentioning my mother, or else I would have known...I would have known...

Macavity snarled as well, grabbing my throat with his free hand and rising up to his feet, dragging my roughly with him until I was on my knees, writhing in pain but unable to pull away. He glowered down into my face so close our whiskers brushed. I recoiled from his closeness, gagging at the thought of what he was, what he'd done. I also wanted to shred his throat for it, rip and tear until nothing was left as no rabid werewolf could do. But Macavity held fast.

"_I'm insane_?!" the crazed fire-colored tom snapped. "Then I'd hate to see what you'll be in a few moments!" There was no hesitance. Macavity raised the gun, shoving it first against my shoulder. I heard the shot, felt my shoulder torn through, but there was no room for any more pain. Even as he spoke he lowered it, shoving it into the shredded fur of my chest. "You've done a lot to me, Munkustrap," he heaved. "No one has ever crossed me twice. No one."

If I hadn't been half dead as it was I still don't think I could have replied. Spit in his face might have sufficed...a final show of attempt before he killed me. But I did nothing. The _rach'arl_ had abandoned me. I saw him lower the barrel of the gun...much more effective than claws, and undoubtedly much quicker.

The bullet tore through my ribs, ripping fur and flesh on its way to embed deep into tender organs. I couldn't scream, couldn't breathe as any air I drew in escaped just as quickly. I could hear from me only a grunt upon impact, buckling forward, before Macavity released my throat and with a shove let me collapse back onto my side. I should have died.

I couldn't believe how close I was. The last blow hadn't even hurt much. I had felt it, but of pain there was no trace. Agony was gone, overwritten by an all-encompassing numbness. Feeling the dead weight of my werecat self fall back on the floor, entirely unsupported, was the act that completed it. I would not rise again, I knew. I could see the blackness encroaching on the edges of my vision, feel my limbs not responding to any command. I can't say I remember any kind of light, or voice, beckoning me to give up, but the feeling itself was of a final peace. A rest I hadn't known in so long. It seemed so pleasant, the offer of relaxation, that when I closed my eyes and gave myself over to it I didn't have a worry or care about the consequences. It was that close...that absolute...that final.

I should have died. I didn't. I can thank or curse Heaviside for that.

There was a voice somewhere...not Macavity's. This time the voice was inside me. Calling me, just the same, only stronger. I listened, dumbfounded and dazed, because this was the sound I'd been wanting to hear all my life. I had made the sound plenty of times before, but never heard it. _Really_ heard it. Now was the time to listen. Up through the vacuum blackness it reached my senses, pulling at and stimulating them. I heard my name again. I could feel it...a moment, building up...via that noise. I looked for it within me, that stranger's voice. I wanted to find him and set him free, for he could save me. I knew it. This voice had all the answers I'd strove for all my life. The answers to the questions I'd been asking about myself, about Jellicles, about life. I could learn them and go on if I only found him.

That sound. I listened. Singing.

_Jellicle Cats come out tonight..._

I could feel that stranger within me. It was his voice calling me, beckoning me to follow him, that one leading the song. The cat.

_You're a disappointment, Munkustrap,_ he said. _You're giving up too easily. You're throwing Demeter's life away._

"But what can I do?" I thought I countered. "Tell me what to do..."

_Get up._

I tried...and failed.

_Jellicle Cats come out tonight._

I tried again. I felt myself move, stir, if only slightly. The jolt of any movement was like electricity through an otherwise numb body.

_Jellicle Cats come one, come all._

My vision flickered back, unfocused at first. I blinked. Slow. It began to clear, painfully bright though it was still shrouded in darkness.

_The Jellicle Moon is shining bright._

I felt my claws grip the ground, pushing myself up. The sour taste of blood flowed through my throat. Yet I drew in breath, and with it: strength.

_Jellicles come to the Jellicle Ball._

Macavity had his back to me when I stood up again. Still every inch a full grown werecat of mangy, fire-colored fur, his wounds were plain to see, and yet he stood tall and proud, hardly noticing them. One black hand was on his opposite shoulder, gripping it securely as a dull golden light radiated from his palm. In his other hand, still waving about, was the pistol. His tail flicked with vital life despite the gore surrounding us, and beyond him, as werecat as any of us, was the old one. The female. I recognized her tattered gray fur, her sunken eyes, her dilapidated aura. Grizabella. Her lips were moving, saying something to Macavity as he interrupted vehemently and answered, snarling. He would not have noticed me had she not alerted him to my presence first. Gazing over his shoulder I met her eyes. Eyes colored a surprising sky blue. I saw those eyes, and yet even then I didn't know...I couldn't have known... She gasped when she saw me, shrinking back into a hunched posture in the same doorway I had been standing in before. Stiffening in visible reaction, Macavity himself turned, slowly, and I was there to meet him.

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

His expression once again was read like a book, whether he intended it to be or not. It was a face I'd never seen from him before: a visage which downright shamed his otherwise noble, regal, and utterly feral features.

Fear. Macavity was afraid of me. In that one look which was so clear and said so much, he was begging me for his life. Or what was left of it. His mouth fell open to form a word, revealing those gleaming ivory fangs, but no sound emitted. I had never a thought of doing such a thing. I thought of Demeter, of Sillabub, of Bombalurina, and realized that in at least one way Macavity was right about us being similar. To finish this I had to play by his rules, his brutality and mercilessness. But I'll never forget that look of fear in his eyes; sadness, even. This face of evil turned to fear. I knew I was fully capable of doing what I had to do.

Still, Macavity had no intention of going quietly. It happened quickly, Grizabella's sudden dart towards me, crying out my name as though she would dash past Macavity and reach safety in my proximity. The Mystery Cat caught her quickly in one arm, whirling with a snarl to bear down upon her. I hurtled forward in an instant, but even that was too long to save her. Macavity snarled, grabbing her ratty gray mane, her head reeling back towards the ceiling as he yanked hard. Her claws were thrown up, a female scream exploding from her throat. It flashed in full focus a split second, and then all was a blur as Macavity shoved the gun into her middle and fired off the remaining rounds. He threw both her and the gun away from him. I saw Grizabella fall, but not before Macavity had whirled back and I was upon him.

Macavity was right. I gave in to the cat, and what I did to him then is not fit to be written here.

It seemed ages before it was all over. But, finally, the underground crematory was still and silent. By some feat of miracles I remained standing, heaving for breath, no doubt a horrible sight to behold though I didn't feel half as bad as when Macavity gutted me. For a moment I was locked in silent stupor, staring with a kind of horror at what I'd done, before entirely on its own my hand reached down to the silver fur that covered my middle. It was all there, uncut, unslashed, and yet that was impossible. No werecat healed that fast from such wounds. But I could hardly dwell on it. I felt the exhaustion creeping upon me like a tiger preparing to pounce: a tiger I could see in full view. I knew that if I didn't sit of my own accord I would fall, and yet I couldn't move. My mind had retreated into that mist of insanity, its thoughts scattered and illogical about what had just happened, and with it came a strange sort of calm. It broke when I heard my name.

"Munkustrap..."

My name. Mine alone. I turned, slowly, and saw Grizabella trying to push herself up against the wall. Without a thought I crossed over to her, stumbling from weakness, collapsing at her side as helpless as I felt. It was Grizabella who Sillabub had referred to when she said "old one." Grizabella who was indeed a Jellicle yet outside our society for reasons no one had ever explained to me. Grizabella whom nobody could touch. Grizabella whose image I had drawn a seeming age ago and had seen myself in her eyes, but couldn't explain why. Grizabella whose mystery intrigued me beyond the hatred, and who now lay dying from her mortal wounds. I pulled my weary self up closer to her, seeing her extended werecat hand and without a thought reaching to take it.

No touch could be so powerful. Our fur-covered palms, black and gray, had not yet clasped tight when I saw it flashing through my mind...so many images...the portrait, my father's face, the photograph, the open journal. It was then that I knew...I knew... I knew where I had seen her before, felt her soft downy fur with inexpert hands. I knew where I had been when those eyes first captured and held me with such gentle tenderness. I knew why I felt like I loved her amid the radiating hate, and wanted to feel her touch in return. But most of all...those sky blue eyes. Amid all her haggard wretchedness those alone remained bright even now. The gray fur that covered her gaunt form swirled throughout with tinges of red and black stripes, a pattern very familiar. And those eyes...

"It was you," I heard myself say, feeling my hand squeeze hers comformingly though my eyes reached out to catch her own. Realization was sudden and complete, but still hard to believe. "It was you the entire time..."

"I couldn't tell you," she whispered fearfully in return, meeting my gaze only briefly before her eyes turned down in shame, in fear. I could see her tears flowing down a well-used path and without hesitance pulled her to me. Leaning against the wall far away from the red traces of the battle that had taken place, I held my mother close against me, feeling the tremble of her shoulders as she wept. I would have done so myself had I found the strength. She rested her head upon my chest and I did likewise in the unwashed strands of her mane, trying to find a grasp on the moment. What could be said that really needed to be? It wasn't so much the fact that my father had lied to me about my mother's death all my life, that she was indeed alive and still in Manhattan, but the notion that it was Grizabella at all. I had known I was drawn to her since that first night at the Jellicle Ball, but never could I have guessed... Yet here she was, about to leave yet again.

"Why?" was all I could think of to ask. In the time that was left for us, I had to know at least the reasoning why behind all that had happened. Perhaps then I could find peace with it; understanding. But I had to know. Why had she left my father and I? Why Macavity? Was that what she'd done to make the others hate her so? I held her comfortingly as she wept, turning her eyes up to me. A trembling hand touched my chest and I reached to hold it there.

"I..." she began, but it was too much. She couldn't manage the words, and even if she had placed them correctly the life seeping from her wounds stole her breath in an effort to kill the pain. "The others can tell you," she managed to gasp, holding me tighter to her as the pain worsened. As though I could feel it myself I curled my larger form around hers, hoping to warm and protect her as long as I was able. It was a small comfort to know we could have this exchange, at the end. It didn't make up for the years of wonder and questioning I had experienced, growing up without a mother's love, but it was at least something. "It wasn't because...I didn't love you, Hunter..."

Those words struck a chord. Leaning down I nuzzled her cheek, licking the tears from her face as my tail curled around her narrow waist. I could feel myself slowly coming back to life. The insanity faded by the moment, feeling coming back into my body first as tiny pinpricks of pain and growing into one continuous aching throb. It reminded me that I was alive after all. But Grizabella's choked cry, her convulsion forward which I strove to hold still, served only as a reminder. I drew a shuddering breath, deep though it hurt to breathe too deep.

"I'll get you out of here," I said before I could stop it, knowing I was fooling myself. "We'll get back to the others and you'll be fine..." I shifted, as though to stand and pull her up with me, but her whimper of pain checked any and all movement. It was in absolute defeat that I slumped back down, leaning against her for support as much as she did me. My mother...as much as I wanted to know, about her, about what she had done, my voice and actions were stayed. Perhaps it was the sheer exhaustion of what I'd gone through that killed the slightest inclination for any more given effort that night. There was only emotion now, myself reduced to that child from the old photograph I first laid eyes upon when I was seventeen. There could be hardly any time for talking left, both of us lost and losing our strength, time running out. The exchange of emotions would have to be enough, a level of understanding without words. But could it?

"Are you proud of me?" I whispered, a dark sound in the hallowed feel of this place. It was a question I'd posed to that portrait of her long ago, that image that was so beautiful. But that portrait was in no way the mother I saw before me. She was not beautiful as the painting had so depicted. Not like this. Yet she was living, breathing, and feeling as no mere picture could ever do. That made her so much more: a lifeline to grasp for some connection with my origins. Her answer was quieter than mine, barely audible even to feline ears.

"Every day."

We remained in silence for a time afterwards, not moving save for the sudden cringe as a wave of pain passed over Grizabella. I wouldn't leave her, not now. Not after so long. It had been almost thirty years since I'd found out I was a werecat, and in that time I had experienced things that I can't explain, things I was both ashamed and content with, things I regretted as much as I cherished. I had traveled the world over and seen astonishing things that no human could ever fathom, and yet it was here and now with my mother that I could say was the most important of them all. I wouldn't have known it at the time, but something needed to be done. Something important beyond measure, if not only for myself. Grizabella would die tonight and I couldn't change that, but echoing through my mind were Macavity's words. _"Think about everything you've wanted to do but never have. Now you won't be able to. Think about it..."_ This time I did think about it, all the questions I could have thought to ask her, to clear my conscience of, but now wasn't the time for me to be making the inquiries. Time had passed...one minute, or fifteen...when Grizabella shifted again, her breath shuddering against me.

"Munkustrap," she whispered through the dark. "I tried to love your father. I wanted to...but there was something inside me I couldn't escape. The other Jellicles hate me for it..." She coughed heavily. Ignoring any and all pain I scooted up higher against the wall, leaning my back against it to support her. "I can...understand that. But I have to know from you..."

"What?" I purred as best I could. "Anything..."

Again her eyes met mine. Tearful and eternally sorrow, she was grief personified. "Can you forgive me?" was her last and only request.

It was not a request so easily granted. How could I forgive actions I did not even know took place? I suppose that, above all things, she was asking me to forgive her abandoning my father and I. He was not here to have a say in such matters, thus I would have to speak for Chevailuro. I could have immediately answered yes, that I forgave her readily for anything she might have done in order to save her any pain I could, but the dishonesty would have killed me. I had to know for certain, and quickly. She was fading fast. I dove into the deepest part of my heart I felt I could reach and searched there, screaming out for frantic answers because I felt her slipping away. Her body growing limp. I searched for a reason, any justifiable ground for me to say yes. I did not find it quickly, perhaps not quickly enough, but once I had...I knew it.

It was the memory of the Jellicle Ball that had done it: that night of Demeter's initiation that Grizabella had intruded upon. Though the annual celebrations were constantly ridden with their madnesses and emotions, blurred away from one's conscious memory, I could recall what I had been thinking and feeling that night. That night of Demeter's abduction. It had been after my father's death, after Adelle's, that I had been thoroughly convinced I could no longer feel. Any sensation at all was a welcome relief, from the passions and ecstasies of the Jellicle Ball to the sorrows of Bustopher's death. It had seemed that I had died myself, for I was unable to feel. Emotion. Sensation. I was merely the Jellicle Leader, standing back with an unfeeling, objective view of the world and how to find a way through it. But that night, after Grizabella when I saw alone in my study, I could remember everything. She in no matter how an indirect way had reminded me that I _could_ feel, that I wasn't dead. She reminded me I was alive. On entirely their own the words of that gorgeous song came playing into my head...their meaning clear as moonlight for the first time. Perhaps it was the cat singing again...I don't know.

_Memory, turn your face to the moonlight. Let your memory lead you: open up enter in..._

I had to. As I'd given myself over to the cat I had to now give myself to my mother. There could be no other way for me to show her what she had done for me, brought me back to the living. All of life was about letting go and learning to move on, turning your face into the sweet divinity of the pale moonlight and letting the memories of what once was lead you on to face a new day, a new world. Those memories had to be cherished as one moved on, opened up and entered in. They couldn't be clung to once their source was gone. One had to move forward into the moonlight, bringing those memories so life would go on. I had to find that moonlight shining down on Grizabella's features and capture it. How could I not? I had to do it quickly, as well. I could feel her slipping away from me, growing fainter, dying...

"Yes," I rasped, desperately holding onto her as she fell limp, striving for her to hear me. "Yes, mother. I forgive you..." Something tore away from inside me then, something that had been there all along. It left me exposed, raw and throbbing in that very moonlight I called heavenly. Beneath the eyes of Heaviside I could feel a part of me departing with her last breath, her sparkling eyes, her eternal beauty which was so much more than outward. Realizing she was gone I couldn't be sure she had heard me. I could only hope my words had been her real release, and easing her limp body to the ground I let her come to rest curled on her side, kneeling over her as I sang her _Journey_ for her alone. No one else could have known it, even I didn't at the time, but learning what I did later I was more certain of it than anything. No Jellicle ever born was more deserving, more worthy, of Heaviside's blessings. If my faith in the Everlasting Cat could be debated over, the one thing that could not was that my mother had more than earned the chance to be reborn into a new life. A happier, fuller one, for no Jellicle ever born had brought so much into life without her even realizing it. I could only hope that Heaviside had given her that chance. Hope, pray, and sing...

I feel as though I can't recall my thoughts through the encounter with Macavity exactly because that's what they were: scattered, random, illogical. I'm firmly convinced I was bordering on insanity myself in that Heaviside-forsaken place. Of the things that took place in that crematory below the streets of Manhattan I couldn't bring myself to tell the others. It was all too personal, what had happened. The other Jellicles wouldn't understand...I didn't think they could. Or perhaps I just didn't want to relive all the emotions by telling them again, exposing that tumult of feeling so close to my heart. It was dawn by the time I emerged back onto the street, carrying Grizabella's limp figure, in death reverted back to her withered human form. Draped over her was a black dress, ragged and torn beyond repair, stained in scarlet red as a final imprint of the kind of life she had created for herself.

To get out of Macavity's lair was to emerge back into the real world, escaping from the horrors witnessed and committed in that place. The insanity was vanquished, the light returning, and to step out into the cool air of the Manhattan streets was reward enough for the efforts undergone in that place. I resolved before I even got out to have the place destroyed, something Hunter Blakeney would have no trouble at all accomplishing. It was as Hunter Blakeney that I stowed the two of us away in the building that covered the site: an abandoned warehouse left to rot, and managed to get into contact with Coricopat and Tantomile. I didn't realize it until they arrived to cover the way back to the safety of my own territory, but I had no longer the need to worry about any aging appearances. My hair was almost totally white.

Grizabella was buried beside my father in her rightful place, as Amanda Blakeney, with arrangements made after things had settled down. While I salvaged what could be found from the ruins of the penthouse and set up a newer, more secure and private place of residence, Demeter stayed with Bombalurina. She wouldn't see me, and in all honesty I couldn't blame her. I wasn't certain if could stand to see her as well. So many things were weighing upon my mind in that time after the event with Macavity that we could both greatly use some space away from each other. I'm sure Demeter had her own problems, thoughts and feelings only Bombalurina could help her with. I checked in on them from time to time, surely, but weeks passed without my having laid eyes upon Desere. A new home was hardly difficult for me to find, almost as much as it was surprising to discover there was not as much damage to the penthouse done as I had initially thought. I suppose Macavity had thought he would kill me and not have the need to destroy and waste so much. Whatever the reason, I found an excuse to get away while the city worked on rebuilding the top floor of the penthouse apartments.

But even afterwards there was no peace. There would be no peace until Macavity was dead. There was still doubt in my mind after that night when so much had happened as to whether the Mystery Cat lived or not. And frankly, I didn't want to take any chances. Thus I encouraged, begged, even ordered the entire tribe of Jellicles in Manhattan to leave the island with me. Not for long, but just enough to be sure...if there was anything to be sure of. Just to get them all away from possible harm. If the vampire lord of Manhattan knew about Macavity well enough to vouch for him then I could only assume the Hidden Paw had his own allies. Leave it to stubborn old Skimbleshanks to refuse, so after some heated arguing I agreed to allow him, Alonzo, and Tumblebrutus to remain behind of their own will, keeping an eye on things while I transported the rest of our members to my family's estate in Maine.

The estate had been in my family since they came to America from Europe, only slightly less impressive and renowned than the Biltmore House. It was private, unknown, and Heaviside knew there was plenty of room for us Jellicles to hide out for a month or so. I hadn't been to the old mansion since I was about twelve, though the place never completely lost its splendid appeal. The story went that my mother spent her last years at the luxurious place when she was stricken with heart disease, supposed to be resting, but then she'd given birth to me there and died shortly afterward. My father had never seemed eager to go back. But now that I knew the truth, I could view the place without so much sentiment and more practicality. The place had been kept clean and in order by the few servants who resided on the estate, and when I showed up with over a dozen "guests" they were more than welcoming. It was a comfort, at least, to know we would be safe. The majority of them were delighted with the rich surroundings, the vast space of the grounds as well as in the house where each was given their own room. It would serve for now, giving me the time I needed to think and to dread what lay ahead for us in the future. I had no way of knowing.


	16. Munkustrap: WereCats 16

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Munkustrap – Part Sixteen

I can't say I was happy to be away from Manhattan, though I had the entire tribe around me for support and mutual protection. The twenty-odd of us crammed up into one house may have sounded uncomfortable, irritating, at best, but really I found it a mixed pleasure. I was glad to be able to watch over them at such close proximity, only wishing it was so easy back on the island. Though days would pass and I would not see some of them: the younger members out riding at the stables, strolling the vast gardens, or wandering the basement where there was an indoor pool and gym; the adults and elders browsing the library or simply room by room, admiring the art and hunting trophies that hung upon the walls, worthless to me and having no idea how they got there, laughing over pool tables and billiards, experimenting in the kitchens with the servants... I suppose they were at least happy to get away from the city, relax and recreate in a place where they were indeed safe. If they weren't satisfied, then perhaps it was an act to make me feel better.

Little good it did. When I wasn't sitting boxed up in my own quarters at one end of the house, staring into space, lapsing into contemplations, I walked the grounds. The sky, the landscape, the house itself...I gazed over it all slowly and deliberately as though trying to fix it all in my mind, or trying to distract my thoughts from returning back to Manhattan, to Macavity. I tried to remain outside the lives of the other Jellicles who I was not so close to, for although we Jellicles do have our sense of culture and society, that element of aloofness remains very prominent on a personal level. I remained distant, lost day after day in thought, and yet the others found their own ways of reaching out to me. I must say I was grateful, for there was so much I had to think about... We may have been in Maine but Macavity remained perilously close to me.

It was strange, the way I would think about him. I would be staring at a portrait of an old relative, reading, or simply doing nothing when his image would suddenly appear in my mind. In some stance, some expression, some words would pour from his throat that I had never heard him utter, yet it seemed as though he could have easily made such a statement at some point in his life. "There's nothing in this world I haven't done!" What was more disturbing was the feeling that accompanied these short bursts of thought. An exhilaration, no matter how brief, as though the Hidden Paw were standing before me, the energy he put into those imaginary statements catching on and quickening my pulse. Or the energy _I_ put into them...I don't know quite how to phrase it... A month passed, and I realized over that time that Macavity was not truly dead. Literal or otherwise. I never forgot him, never intend to, and I don't think he ever forgot me. I could never disregard the things he had shown me, the power I'd felt, no matter how much time passed between that night and today.

I saw him everywhere I went. He was in all of us Jellicles: an Edward Hyde that came out when our passions were sharpened into a piercing dagger. That's what he was: passion. Passion and evil. Passionate about life, about death, about living and dying and everything in between. I could feel his presence inside me when I wanted to run, when I wanted to hunt, when I wanted to kill, mate, or dance. In the serene quiet of the estate gardens late at night I could hear his voice on the wind, laughing, mocking. Closing my eyes I could still see him: his blazing eyes like coals, his coat like fire, flashing through the darkness of my vision. A creature of passion...sometimes I was certain he not only shared qualities deep down with me, but that he was still truly there. I never told anyone, hid it as best I could, but often on full moons when passion ran deep I wondered if my actions were truly my own...

Sometimes I would have dreams about that incarnate of evil. I still feared him. Or rather, it was not fear so much as respect. If through all his vile deeds he had earned one thing from me, it was respect. But the thing I remembered most was that moment when we shared the ultimate sensual pleasure of absolute power...that split second where I felt like God. Macavity probably thought he was...

Yes, Macavity still lived. It was only in the other Jellicles that I could find ways to escape him, if only briefly. Both at the crack of dawn and near midnight when I was sure to be in my room Jennyanydots would bring meals up from the kitchen, to sit and to talk. As much as I wanted to tell her everything, clear my conscience of these feelings I still carried, I constantly denied the urge. It would have been wonderful to have someone to share my most intimate secrets with: someone who would listen and understand without judging. Thinking of this I could only ever think of Adelle, and it never happened. I kept my silence. About Macavity, about Quaxo, about Adelle and my mother... At noon every day as constant as the sun I would receive a phonecall from Skimbleshanks informing me about the status of the island, of any unwanted activity, and let me know generally what was happening. Good old tom, he was never a minute late. Of what he told me, there was no sign of Macavity anywhere. Three weeks into the stay at the house I was standing out on the balcony of my quarters, looking up at a moon that was very close to being full. The Jellicle Ball not for another month yet, it was not to be worried over. Cassandra came to my room that night and stood with me on that balcony, also gazing upward, and asked if I would go back to hers. I don't remember declining the offer, but either way I didn't go.

I found that after that dreaded night with Macavity I could never sleep again, not fully. I could catch naps in stretches of thirty minutes or so, day and night alike, but never again in my life would I sleep more than an hour at a time. The reason? There's quite a few: nightmares being one of them, the need to be about and watchful another. I suppose it was just the desire to be conscious. I couldn't stand the not-knowing of what went on when I slept. As the weeks passed and I realized this it did not really alarm me. I could live on catnaps every few hours. Sometimes it was actually pleasant, being up the majority of the night while the others slept. (That is, when Tugger and the young toms weren't sneaking out to let the horses loose and chase them as werecats after dark.) Standing out on the balcony of my private quarters I could look up and see the moon, the stars, the vast open sky that drifted with wispy gray clouds over the sleeping countryside. So peaceful and yet when I felt most alive. Night...the moon...the dark...

It was such a night, when the moon was very nearly full, that I could stand it no longer. The enormous house was beautiful, filled with the tribe of Jellicles I had fought so hard for, but I couldn't stay here. Not tonight. I tossed off my coat and shifted down to cat form to leap down from the second-floor balcony onto the thick green grass of the lawn surrounding the house. Damp with midnight dew, my paws were silent in their long strides as I ran over the gently rolling hills, around the house and paved driveway, past the stables into the fields and then into the very woods of New England. The night was clear, the moon bright, and I was a cat. This was where a Jellicle should be.

The enormous house was indeed beautiful. Approximately 190 rooms upon four floors, it had the look of an ancient mansion of which it was. Built in the early 1800s, it took six years to finish and was the only dwelling that occupied its surroundings property spanning for miles in every direction: nothing but woodlands. The Blakeney fortune I now possessed had been new when my ancestors had built this structure, be they Jellicle or not, though it is hard to imagine any human coming up with such a grand structure. Truly, humans are a very uninspired and creatively challenged species. It takes those special few among them: the Jellicles, the werewolves, the vampires, and Heaviside knows what else, to produce the true works of art. To be the true figures in history and to make true changes. Interpret that information as you will. I'll say no more.

My run didn't slow even as I shifted up to were form. Four paws leaving the ground in a gigantic leap as a cat, I landed on two in the renowned Jellicle battle form, slowing to a stop afterward to glance back the way I had come, panting breath hot clouds in the night air. The house was darker than the surroundings scenery in the distance, a few windows remaining bright with illumination as some servants were still cleaning after the day's activities, the other Jellicles either helping or giving them a hard time. The place seemed so alien in the night: a civilized structure through the eyes of a wild thing. Pointless. The woods were home now. I turned back into them.

I don't know how long I ran over the sloping grounds, through the tall maples and pines, dashing past the underbrush that yanked and pulled at my fur, scratching with tiny stimulating sensations. I felt the old rush of being alive come back to me, though not nearly so much as it had in times before. Blood raced faster than my paws that carried me through the darkness, mile after mile, until the enormous house was gone from sight. There was only the wild now. The forest, the night sky, the sounds around me, all bathed in pale moonlight that filtered down onto my coat: another set of stripes. Many Stripes, that's who I was.

I had never run through these woods before, and hadn't the slightest idea where I was, how long I had been running, when I finally reached the clearing. It was not a big one, but seemed perfectly placed on the crest of a hill, as though drawn from some fantasy story book. No longer was there a wind, but a still silence. A silence broken only by the scratch of an animal...a deer, that stepped out into view. I crouched down, one hand helping to balance on the ground, the other poised behind me, claws flexed, in a ready battle stance. The stag emerged into the moonlight of the clearing, a truly majestic creature. Too bad it was dinner.

The stag expected nothing. He didn't suffer, at least. A leap from behind, fangs to his throat, it was one clean bite that severed the deer's neck. The silence went unbroken as I pulled the animal down, beneath the light of that same moon, tore and ate the musky flesh, and loved it. Having gorged myself on raw meat, I curled up beside the warmth of the carcass, still a werecat, and slept.

I dreamed about the Everlasting Cat that night, in the time I curled up asleep in that field. I dreamed she in all her infinite grace leaped down from her perch on the near-full moon, lay beside me, and I made love to her...or vice versa. (The symbolism of it would be enough to have a deeper meaning, for that sort of thing among us cats is not so important.) Perhaps it wasn't a dream, but I don't know how it could have been otherwise. When I felt conscious again it was still night. The moon was low, the eastern sky growing light as dawn approached. Dragging myself up I found I was still in werecat form, fur messed and starving. The deer remained undisturbed, but I wouldn't touch it again. I glanced up at the moon, as cold and distant as ever, but there was a warmth in her light. Bastet's eye that never faltered in her gaze. I slunk back to the house under the protection of her watch, comforted by the thought of her presence in the strangest of ways.

It went on like that for weeks. In the daylight hours I watched over my Jellicles, handled matters that needed handling, played the role of leader that I was meant to. But every night, when the house was quiet, the same call would come from the woods and I would run out to meet my Lady. I suppose that after the night with Macavity I became a much more religious Jellicle, more firm in my beliefs and what I had read about the Everlasting Cat and Heaviside. It wasn't a conscious realization, but it happened. What seemed stranger even was that, despite the nights I ran out to the same clearing, I couldn't for the life of me ever remember actually meeting Bastet, in physical form or otherwise. Nor did I question it. The dreams were astounding, so vivid in their detail, but of the divine cat who was said to be our goddess there is nothing. Sometimes I felt her presence, lying stretched out with the blades of wild grass whispering beside my ears, hearing the wind in the trees and through my fur like a caressing hand. Shifting down to a true cat size I could quite literally feel her warmth as she stroked my fur, curling a hand up through my tail. Her voice was a music in my mind, a sound too beautiful to be heard in real life. I felt her caress, kneeling before her in all her grace, her voice calling me Munkustrap. As I had loved Adelle, Demeter, my mother, I now loved the idol I should have been devoted to since the beginning. I would not call it some profound religious experience that altered my perception, but truly the Everlasting Cat had shown me her moonlight, and there was only her. Now I was hers.

A month passed. I told no one of my nightly affairs, whether out of foolish jealousy or because Bastet had willed it I can't say. It was my secret to keep, either way. No one would have to know...and if they should, who would believe it? The Twins, perhaps...Sillabub who could see so much through her kittenish eyes, Bombalurina who could look right through me. What would they say, if it were possible: an affair with a goddess. I would never call any such thing an mere affair, for what I experienced those nights in Maine was indescribable. An understanding, perhaps, between myself and Bastet. At best that is all I can call it. Perhaps it was only coming to terms with my own fears and thoughts... It would take me years to figure it out.

The weather had turned much colder by the time I finally ventured beyond the property of the house. I was with Tugger and the Twins, driving through the countryside of Maine on the way to gather Jennyanydots from an orphanage she had gone to earlier that day. (Amazing, I finally learned to drive. Even more amazing was that my tutor had been Tugger...the cat was reckless.) The two-lane highway through the vast pine forests and hills was a fairly empty one, which boded well Tugger's confidence that he could sit in the front passenger seat, werecat paws kicked up on the dashboard of the Mercedes convertible as he smoked. Behind me sat Coricopat and Tantomile, holding their usual silence, gazing out at the passing scenery when they weren't looking at each other. Every now and then I would glance up to the rearview mirror to catch a glimpse of them, and each time they returned my gaze evenly.

"You'd think they'd put some good stuff on the radio for once, instead of this crap..." Tugger growled, flicking that very machine off with a twitch of his golden-black tail. "Those humans think they can sing."

"You think so highly of yourself," I purred, not so irritated by his antics as I sometimes pretending I was. "Why not put on that act tonight after dinner. The one you so proudly displayed at the bar?"

"That?" Tugger cackled, a strange sight considering it was with a cat's muzzle that he smoked. "H**l, that was nothin'. You wanna see talent?" Tossing the cigarette remnants out the side of the car the lanky black maned tom twisted around in his seat to grin cockily at the two in the back. "C'mon, who's up for a caterwaul contest?"

Simultaneously the Twins shook their heads, even in human form maintaining that solemn, all-knowing aura about them. Their mutually dark skin and hair seemed strangely unaffected by the wind that passed us by, keeping that stillness. Frowning at their lack of reply, Tugger sniffed disdainfully and turned fully around to face them, crouching in his seat without regard to who might see his werecat form.

"Ya ever heard the term sour puss?" he asked with a sneer. "Can't you two even talk?"

No answer. Keeping out of it, I nevertheless faced the difficult task of trying to hold back a burst of laughter. Tugger's tail thumped impatiently.

"What? Too good for the rest of us? C'mon, ratlovers!"

"Tugger," I said in warning, drawing the line between teasings and insults. Of course, I was ignored.

"Y'know now that I think about it, I can't even remember ever hearin' you two sing at the Jellicle Ball. Cat got yer tongue or something? Hello...just one scale, c'mon. What would it hurt?"

Finally Tantomile spoke for them: "Demeter is pregnant."

I slammed on the brakes, nearly sending Tugger careening backwards through the windshield, his curses drowned out by the screech of tires. Despite the fact I was now in the middle of the road, I left the car running and twisted around myself to face the two, feeling the slightest hint of fangs in my mouth when I roared: "_What_?!"

Coricopat's expression was as relaxed as his sister's, both their voices as vacant of feeling as when Tantomile had spoken. He repeated what she'd said so calmly, without the slightest hint of change.

"Demeter is pregnant."

I could only stare in absolute disbelief, but something—perhaps a thought placed in my mind by the Twins themselves—gave me no other choice. It had to be true...Demeter, her time with Macavity, what he had said... I couldn't find the words to speak before Tugger managed to push himself up, shifting back into human form, giggling in that obnoxious way and brushed strands of wild hair from her face.

"Oh-ho, man! You gotta be kiddin' me!"

But they weren't kidding. I panicked, suddenly faced with a connection...a connection drawn from guilt: my meetings in the night, the dreams, and now this. What had I done? The theory was radical, not quite as believable as Macavity being involved, but it made sense. If the Everlasting Cat wanted to bring two Jellicles together, by Heaviside she would do it. Had it been Demeter all those nights, and not Bastet? Was that why I didn't remember? If she had come to be that way from Macavity the Twins would have known sooner...Demeter would have told someone... It made perfect sense to me, if not for the right reasons, but nevertheless I had to ask, nearly choking on the words: "Whose is it?"

"Macavity," they answered in a deathly venomous hiss. Silence prevailed, even from Tugger, the moments afterward. I slumped back into the seat, far from relieved. No, how could I have been? I would have been more content perhaps if it _had_ been mine! At least then it would not belong to that demon. Then it struck me: another way in which Macavity managed to live, to haunt and terrorize us. Was there no end to his means? No permanant way to be rid of him? Demeter...why Demeter?

"How long...?"

"Three months, approximately," Tantomile answered. "The child shall be due in two."

"Two months," I repeated, lifelessly. We had yet to reach the orphanage where Jenny was waiting. We had to get there, then drive the miles back to the house. How could I wait that long? With the questions filling my mind as they were, it would have to be that long before I could talk to either Bombalurina or Demeter. Closing my eyes a moment, I turned back to the car and took up driving once again. This time not a word passed between any of us.

Finally, Macavity had gotten what he wanted.

Upon returning to the house I did not storm in, throw open the door to the joint room Bombalurina and Demeter shared to demand an explanation, no matter how much I wanted to. I help the heavy front door open for Jenny and the others as they went in, the former of who had also known about Demeter's situation and had chosen not to inform me. Was I really that blind? Of course, Demeter would hardly see me in the weeks before we had come to Maine, let alone here at the estate. She was in Macavity's clutches for so long...how early had he managed to plant that poisonous seed inside her? Her time with him, then back in Manhattan before we had come here, the time that had passed already: all time for Macavity's spawn to grow in an innocent queen's body. I couldn't imagine what Desere must have been going through the past months, knowing this. Thus I waited until night before heading in secret to Bombalurina and Demeter's residence at the other end of the house. (Precautions...toms and queens were housed separately for the most part.)

The two were sitting upon one of the beds in the room, facing each other, hunched forward as though in deep conversation. I knocked gently before being admitted by Gwyneth's hushed voice, though I had not opened the door the entire way and looked through it when my eyes met Desere's green depths. A silent moment, then she burst into tears and buried her face into Gwyn's shoulder. Gwyneth held her close, glancing up as well while comforting her friend, her dark gaze being enough to tell me it was better if I left. But I didn't. I closed the door behind me with a quiet click and edged closer, hesitant only when I caught sight of the open window beyond the two females. A full moon beyond in a dark sky, covered by wispy clouds that drifted slowly over the glowing orb. Bastet's call... I felt the pull again to be out of there, running through those woods, but tonight it would have to be fought. I sat down on the bed beside them, putting my back to the window.

Not a word rose from the three of us. There was no need to speak. Desere transferred herself from Gwyneth's lap to mine, resting her head as she let her tears come without restraint, curled up and clutching her middle like the frightened kitten she was. I held my daughter close, stroking her dark hair, Gwyneth completing the circle of three by leaning against me as well, one hand on my shoulder, her other on Desere's. There the three of us shared an all-encompassing sorrow, waiting for the dawn to break and bring an end to it all.

It would take many more dawns before anything ended. Another month passed and Demeter's pregnancy become more evident. As a rule werecat females don't grow very big when carrying a child—predatorial reasons, I always figured—but there were other signs that made it so much more horrifyingly obvious. It was in her eyes each time I looked at her and she turned away in complete and utter shame. It was in her voice, even when she would not speak to me. It was in her very presence when she entered a room and all chatter would stop, all thoughts turning to this girl who carried the kitten of a Jellicle we were taught to hate. As the full moon passed and began to fade I was able to more easily fend off the nightly runs in the dark. Demeter needed me now, and this time I would be here for her.

But there were a few times during our stay at the house when I returned to Manhattan alone. It was strange, being back on the island with everyone else gone, save for the few I posted behind. It was as though there was a void in the place, an absence of our home's usual security and friendliness without the Jellicles. But it was also an opportunity for a little cleaning. With Skimbleshanks, Alonzo, and Tumblebrutus at my side we cleaned out several areas of the more rowdy werewolf packs, burned and bulldozed some old buildings that were the daytime rests for known vampires, and basically rid the island of its less desirable inhabitants. I moved what could be salvaged of the penthouse to a new residence, more private and secure in every aspect. I wanted this place to be safer when Demeter and the others returned. I had to make sure this wouldn't happen again.

Finally it came. Another full moon. A still, gorgeous night that lay over the Maine countryside: such serene beauty that cruelly mocked the screams of Demeter coming from inside the house. Outside one the stone-lined veranda I paced restlessly, surrounded by the presence and chatter of the other toms but unable to focus on any of them. Again and again my eyes would wander up to that moon overhead in an unusually clear sky, sometimes glaring in accusation, sometimes begging for mercy. I could sense the tension in the air, in the others around me, in my own mind. The toms were nervous, aroused, excited, a great many of things, but they did their best to hide it from me. They laughed and joked, talked about other things, prowled the grounds on four paws, but even their best wasn't good enough. They were thinking the same things I was. Demeter there in the house without any real medical benefit: only what Jennyanydots and the Twins could provide, preparing to bring a new, despised life into this world. Each time one of her screams cut the air I couldn't stand it, my own body tightening at the sound of her pain. It had started at dusk but gone on for hours by now. Hadn't Demeter suffered enough without this torture?

"She'll be fine," Plato tried to tell me. "Jenny and the Twins know what they're doing..."

I tried to believe him, but my pacing wouldn't stop. I threw my jacket over the back of one of the outdoor chairs, despite the chill of the night feeling entirely too hot. My steps over the flat, rounded stones of the porch were quick and sharp, walking one end to the other, irritating if I hadn't been so focused on other things. Another scream from inside. I clenched my eyes shut, but if that had any effect it was only to magnify that sound of absolute torment. In any other circumstance a newborn Jellicle was a thing to be celebrated. But not on this night. Not when Macavity was living through his legacy.

The sound of a door opening snapped me from the depths of my own mind, and I whirled, attention snapping to the rectangle of golden light that spilled out along with every other tom on that veranda. Silhouetted in the light was Coricopat, his sleek werecat figure seeming very small compared to most adults as he took up the space of the doorway. "Munkustrap," he called in a quiet hiss, in one smooth gesture indicating me to come inside. Why, I did not know. I had no indications from anyone I would be involved in the process. Leader or not: the overwhelming majority of Jellicle males were allowed nowhere near a queen while giving birth. I didn't think, of all things in this world, I could stand to watch what was going on in the upstairs of that house right now. The mere thought was maddening enough. But nevertheless I went, silently, pausing in the doorway only once to glance back at that same moon. There was a ring of glowing pale light encircling Bastet's eye, almost rainbow in its ghostly colors. A halo...

Perhaps it was a good sign.

Nothing could be called good about that night. Following Coricopat's werecat self up the three flights of stairs I could think, feel, speak only nothing. Dread, horror, Everlasting Cat only knew what I expected to see as he pushed open the door to the hard-floored room Demeter had been moved to for this night. I hung behind, unwilling to enter, to watch what must take place, but an inward push gave me no choice. Bombalurina, Tantomile, and Jennyanydots remained crouched beside Demeter where she lay on the floor, tear-stained face ridden in pain as she stared up at the ceiling, unwilling to look anyplace else. Feline as we may be, Jellicle bodies are still designed to do some things in a very human way. To the side near a lit fireplace over which sat a boiling pot of water was Sillabub and Rumpleteazer, wide-eyed and ready as they crouched low, prepared to do anything they were bid at a moment's notice. All were in werecat form, and for no reason other than that I joined them, immediately regretting it. The smell in the room...it was not the smell of life, but of death. Blood, agony, steam, alcohol, the acid of fear that seeped only from living bodies permeated the room in a rancid odor, drawing a lump into my throat and the urge to do nothing more but get away from this vile place. Demeter shrieked my name as another spasm of pain swept over her, and I placed myself at her side.

"I'm here, Dem," I said, replacing Jenny to clutch one of Demeter's golden hands so she was free to work beside Tantomile. What comfort that could be taken in that knowledge, Demeter only knew. Across from me was Bombalurina, holding her other clenched fist in a comforting hold despite an obviously crushing grip, her other white hand keeping a damp rag to the younger queen's forehead. Feeling utterly useless I could only let my watch travel between them, the brave females as weary and stressed as Demeter. Working without proper medication, proper tools and methods as a hospital was entirely out of the question, it was on Tantomile's age-old knowledge and Jenny's good judgement that we relied on tonight. There would be no telling which of the three forms the kitten would be born in, save for the indication that Demeter had shifted to werecat, probably automatically, and the knowledge that Jellicle mothers shift to whatever form their child was conceived in upon delivering it to save the most pain. Apparently it made little difference.

"Almost ready," Jenny said breathlessly, wiping damp strands of yellow-orange mane from her forehead. Frantically I looked to Coricopat. He showed no indication of leaving, standing as he was behind Tantomile, his hands on her shoulders, offering what power and support he could to his sister. I crouched lower, almost level with Demeter's heaving pants.

"It's alright, Dem," Bombalurina purred, lightly nuzzling her friend's cheek with her whiskers. "Whenever you're ready..."

"No..." I heard her whimper, a small and pathetically weak sound. I poured my heart out for her then, when she closed her eyes shut in protest and turned her face away from the events that were already set in motion. I wanted to give her my strength, anything I could will away, so she could go through with this. Just this...and then it would be over. I could handle things from there so she wouldn't have to suffer anymore. But this was too much. "No..."

It happened.

Demeter threw her head back, screaming in agony as the final push came. For that moment all was suspended, my tautness as I held on, Bombalurina's intense glare darting to Jenny and Tantomile, the two younger females across the room huddled together in fear, the pulse of Tantomile's powerful Gifts combined with Coricopat's as they concentrated it together. For so long it seemed Demeter's scream rose over all of this before it faded, the dreadful arch in her back falling to the floor. The white-hot fire of pain within her eyes faded as the werecat-formed child left her body. She let herself fall limply back, tears streaming her cheeks, squeezing Bombalurina's and my hand for comfort. Not realizing I had stopped breathing, I forced my free hand to release the grip they had on the wooden floor planks, so tight it hurt and stroked her lightly, speaking soft words. Beyond my range of vision Tantomile's skilled silver hands continued to work a moment, until—finally—her deep violet eyes rose, calling to meet mine. What lay in there mists was not to be spoken, but it drew me from Demeter's side. Exchanging a similar glance with Jenny, the elder nodded for me to follow with her. She stood, wrapping something small and alive in a towel and holding it close to her as she swept out the same way I had entered.

Demeter's body sagged with exhaustion, resting in Bombalurina's lap as Sillabub and Rumpleteazer were beckoned in to help clean. I watched the scarlet-red female stroke her tear-stained face and watched as Demeter's breathing slowly returned to normal. Her frame relaxed as Tantomile ran a cloth of light red liquid over her brow, and just as silent her breathing became deep and measured as she slipped into an extreme sleep, shifting slowly back to her human shape.

She looked so peaceful lying there. I hated to leave her. Glancing up at the windows whose curtains remained pulled open despite it all, I saw the moon yet again. Sitting there like a jewel among black velvet. It was over. Demeter had suffered all she would ever suffer, and I turned my back yet again to the divine light to shift back into human myself, following Jenny into the hallway.

She was there waiting for me as I emerged, the bundle she held in her arms squirming with small noises upon which my sole attention was focused. So it was alive...Macavity for all his vampiric qualities and deep-rooted evil could conceive another life, after all. If that were possible I wondered what was truly left in the world that could not be done, for in all my experience the answer was simple: nothing. The towel Jenny held was white, stained quickly and thoroughly in streaks of red tissue as the kitten was cleaned off. Extended from one end I saw a tiny hand: a werecat paw, covered in fur and possessing the claws of any cat but also a human's able fingers. It flexed and stretched as a low mew strained up through the cloth folds, and Jenny's aged human features fell in a sorrow for the kitten's fate. Despite it all, we both knew what must be done.

"It's seems to be healthy," she said, a choked whisper as she gazed down on this thing as though it were her own child. I could hardly blame Jenny for her sympathy: she was the kindest of grannycats, and would very likely forgive Macavity himself for all he had done if he had only asked her. That was why I would have to do it alone. "Demeter as well. She'll be well by morning...although...I can't speak for her frame of mind, the poor dear." Knowing what it was that she spoke, Jenny could hardly bear it. She clutched the kitten tightly to her chest.

"What is it?" I found somewhere to ask. I didn't want to see what was curled inside that bundle, fur drying and heart beating even as we spoke. That heartbeat was a throbbing tremor in my ears, the pounding demand of this abomination that it would not die so willingly so we would be rid of it. It would fight to live as long as it could, for that's what it was, I had no doubt: an abomination. Macavity's blood carried on into an entirely new body and life. I would not call it a prophecy, as Jellicles hold no such things, but there was a knowledge sprung instantly into the minds of all who had been in that room to witness the birth. We knew only disaster would be brought on by this life, and therefore we had to stop it.

"A boy," she whispered, turning to meet my gaze. She stared at me a moment as though in disbelief. I can imagine my expression at that moment, drawn from a memory that will no fade no matter how much I willed it to. I held no emotion after witnessing that kitten's birth. I wanted it to end. Any sorrow at all I reserved for Demeter, and not for this son of Macavity. The moment it was conceived I hated it, and now was only a chance for revenge. Revenge on Macavity. Jenny knew this as well, and she turned the bundle over into my arms, standing back to wipe the oncoming tears from her eyes. "We don't have to do this," she said, quieter, more of a deathly rasp than ever uttered that night. "There has to be another way."

I wanted to believe her, perhaps, though I knew she was only trying to fool herself. Some things were already set in motion. I took the bundle, gathering my courage in preparation as I drew back a flap of the towel to peer inside it. A kitten, normal in absolutely every way, save one. His fur still damp and spiky, there was no doubt as to his heritage, for there was the same fire that danced through the kitten's coat as there was tainted blood in his veins. Curled up with his hands and feet tucked beneath him like any cat, shivering with the coldness of the drafty house air, he winced first as the sudden absence of comforting darkness. He blinked, his eyes opening, turning up to me with a pathetic mew. I met his eyes, as green as Demeter's, harmless and innocent. I felt those eyes reach into me, touching my conscience, and though there remained no pity I was still caught in a no-win situation. To end this kitten's life was to turn against Heaviside and everything I had come to believe. To let the child live was to condemn these and future Jellicles to a much worse fate, should these feelings come true. It was a risk I could not take, should it not even come to pass. Everlasting Cat, help me...

"You're right," I said after a moment, reaching down with one hand to stroke the kitten's new fur as soft as down. His tail curled against my wrist, tiny needle fangs snapping at my hand uselessly. "I must do this alone, Jenny." I glanced up to her, begging her to understand when I couldn't myself. "Don't tell her what happened...tell her it was stillborn..."

Jenny said nothing, nor would she look at me much longer. She despised me for going through with this and herself even more for allowing it. Stiffly, ducking her face with a restrained sob, she brushed past me, back into the room where the rest awaited news of the kitten's status. "Then do what you must..."

Now I was alone, and in every sense of the word. No one would join me down this path I had ventured. Not Bombalurina, or Jenny, or Demeter...not even the Everlasting Cat herself. I had a choice now: to continue down this path, into its all-concealing darkness and danger, until I was eventually lost from all sight of the other Jellicles and out of reach of Heaviside's light. Or I could turn back now. I could be weak and chose the easiest course that would put the smallest burden upon my shoulders, but a burden all the same. But even when Jenny had placed the kitten in my arms I think perhaps I knew what I had to do; I knew the path I would take. It was darkness for me. An endless night.

I kept my eyes on the kitten's youthful face, so innocent and naive, as I walked slowly, silently, down the hallway to a further end of the house. The solitude was necessary. The gentle movement put the kitten into a quick sleep, without care, unknowing of the works happening around him. Even then I watched him: his fiery fur, black and red paws, white-tipped tail, the rise and fall of his back as he breathed. All along, this was what Macavity had wanted.

It couldn't be that simple! It would be a plain insult if it was! If this kitten was all we had fought and strove for, the only reason any of this had ever happened in the first place, something so simple, what was the point of any of it? There had to be more to this crusade than Macavity simply wanting a kitten of his own...there had to! Yet what other explanation was there? This kitten embodied everything: what Demeter and Bombalurina had suffered for, what Grizabella had died for, what I had shed my blood and salvation for...Macavity's child. To plunge into the sea of reason and drown, unable to take the pressure, unable to breathe the clean air of understanding or gain access to the surface so one might see the distant horizon that was hope...that was where I stood now, upon the threshold of understanding but unable to breach it. I reached the other end of the enormous house, the other end of my mind, and did what I had to do.

I slid one hand around the child's neck...and killed it.

I had failed. As a Jellicle, as a leader, as a father...I was a failure.

I ran into the woods for the final time that night, throwing myself down on my knees in that clearing to offer myself and the lifeless child to the Everlasting Cat, reaching up for her perch in the moonlight where the moon hung just barely visible over the dark treeline. Dawn was already approaching, which gave me little time to beg for forgiveness, to ask why Bastet had placed me here to do this vile work and then condemn me for it as well. Where could I turn when both the Jellicles and Heaviside had forsaken me because of my crimes? Yeowling out to the moon's waning hours that night, I held nothing back: "I don't care about myself and what you do to me! Show me you haven't forgotten the rest of us! You're people! Give me something to see that you're still with us, and I know I can continue on. I'm damned from your realms, I know, but for the others...! _Heavisiiiiiide_!"

But the moon hung: cold, silent, an eye as unblinking as Bastet's contemptuous stare. The vast distance between us was what I felt the growing abyss between myself and Heaviside was to be. The Everlasting Cat, who only a few nights ago I had curled up beside in this very field, or at least dreamed it, was now aloof and uncaring, the detachment that would doom our entire race if she did not find favor with us. Wasn't that what the old songs had said about her? Those who were forsaken by Bastet herself were condemned in the eyes of all the world, and now she had forgotten us. She refused to answer...ignoring my cries...turning her back as it was her right to now do so.

That did not mean I would give up so easily. "Tell me what to do," I groaned, slumping down on my knees but never tearing my gaze from the pale light that fell onto my fur. "Whatever it is, I'll do it...if there's one thing I've always tried it was to follow your songs. Everlasting Cat...I've done what you said must be done. Now you condemn me for it. I won't argue, because I know you're right in what you do, but don't turn your back on the others. Inflict your punishments on me, but not them. Not them..."

The air became warm, the halo around the moon returning even as I watched her divine light shine down, into my eyes, onto my fur, into my soul... I received my sign that night, and buried the kitten.

It's strange that I had so often before noticed the beauty and serenity of the estate house at night, but never really noticed it in the day. Typical cat. But it was after that night: that night when so much was lost, so much gained, that I returned to the house and saw it as though I had never laid eyes upon the place before. It wasn't so much the place itself as those who inhabited it: the Jellicles, young and old, tom and queen, all of whom in one way or another had become the most important things in my natural life over the course of thirty-odd years. When I could not sleep after returning from the woods that night I stood out on the balcony of my quarters, gazing down at the lawn and scenery spread out before my view as the sun rose. I stood there, unmoving, not touching the meal that was brought, not shrugging away and clothing as the sun grew warmer overhead as it reached noon. Mind so stifled in thought and contemplation I noticed nothing around me: not the familiar faces I knew that appeared upon the lawn; not Gus or Jenny as they both left and entered the bedroom behind me; nothing beyond my own thoughts of this place, the Jellicles, what exactly the events of last night had meant. The Jellicles were certainly up and about as usual, the drama of the previous night going largely forgotten as they preferred to be drawn towards more cheerful things. It was only for the best. Demeter rested now in the utmost care, and I—dash it all—watched without seeing as the world renewed around me. It took Gus's voice to snap me from my thoughts.

"I found someone who will take the show," he said solemnly. I stiffened at the sudden realization he was there but did not turn to look at him. I may have gotten through the night, but that in no way indicated I was in any better mood for it. Some things we had yet to finish, I knew, and the events of the dire things that had happened replayed in my mind over and over, having yet to lose their horrible unreality or devastating impact. Perhaps I should have been satisfied at least with the news, but Gus only received the hardened end of my despair.

"Who?" I asked, keeping my gaze fixed rigidly out over the balcony.

"An old friend of mine in England. He's been dabbling in musical theatre with some relative success the last few years. He's willing to put the show out for us."

"In his name, of course?"

"Yes. He's a Jellicle as well, and a smart one. He'd got his own tribe who will most likely lend a hand to get it started. We'll get the major percentage of the profits, providing there are any."

I shook my head, doing everything in my power to restrain my voice and a mounting temper. "You can take my portion. I don't want it."

"Hunter," Gus said, crossing his arms and coming to stand at my shoulder. "It's all taken care of. Everything's in the highest secrecy so we won't have to worry about—"

"I don't want it, Gus."

"I know you're rich, Stripes...probably one of the things I envy about you. But there may come a time when you'll need, or at least Demeter will—"

"Heaviside d**n it, Gus!" I roared suddenly, turning on him, startling myself as much as the old ragged tomcat. "Can't you see there's more important things going on here than some blasted profits?!"

Bless his heart, the old geezer wouldn't back down. He faced me squarely, undaunted by threats or any show of rage. "Of course I know it, Blakeney! The entire tribe knows it! You think we're all sitting up here with you because we've got the same paranoia about Macavity? We're just waiting for you to come out and tell us what in blue blazes is going on with...with...any of this!" He tossed his hands in the air, already backing away. He knew it was useless. Gus knew me at least that well. "Demeter isn't the only one we're worried about. When you can get over your pride and come chat with us commoners, feel free to do so." He sighed, turning back to leave. "I just hope you make that choice soon."

I waited until he was gone before I turned as well, walking with a stiff slowness towards the balcony to lean against it, my hands on the smooth stone wall, gazing out over the grounds this time with a sense of fabrication. Gus didn't understand. None of them could have... They all would come to think Macavity's kitten had died after birth of natural causes. They would never know of what I gave up for them that night to Heaviside to insure their safety. They would never know the horrors I'd witnessed in the depths of Macavity's lair, with the vampires and Quaxo, with my own mother... As though hiding the werecat of me from public view was not hard enough, another part of my life must remain strictly secret. Some things are just better off not being known.

But all that was irreversible now. Now I just gazed out and over the grounds...

The scenery surrounding the house was always beautiful. Standing on the balcony, looking out into the mountain range in the distance beneath the crystal-blue sky and drifting clouds, the sun shining down on the green spring leaves, it always looked surreal. Like the backdrop painting of a movie set. Too perfect to be genuine. The birds were unusually loud. The leaves fluttered in the wind, looking incredibly soft as their silver backs turned up to the sunlight.

As though a suffering conscience is not enough to bear, even Nature found the time in its busy schedule to mock me and my torment. After the sun had risen that next day I stood alone on my room's balcony to look out over the landscape, and I daresay it was the most beautiful morning I'd ever seen.

Nothing went untouched by the sun's golden rays. Even shadows were dim with light, and everything was green. The trees around the house, the clean-cut grass, even the mountains in the distance were speckled bright green among brown and blue peaks. It was all so bright...if life had a designated color it would be green. Everything was alive that spring morning, breathing, growing, pulsing with life. A life I was not worthy to touch, to enjoy, to even look at, let alone share in. I was a dead thing now, admiring the beauty of all this life from inside stone walls. I could never walk among the swaying green fields of yellow clover flowers and feel the wind in my fur. That wind I so loved. I could never join Plato, Tugger, and Mistoffelees on the front lawn in their laughing game of soccer. I would never live beyond the life I had now because what died in that room was not just Demeter's kitten. It was not only that child that had been buried forever. It was my soul that was gone. I would never be a father because I had no soul to give to any child. I would never gain entrance to Heaviside because the Everlasting Cat had denounced me. I had bargained myself away with vampires, smothered myself away with innocent kittens. I had sacrificed myself for the good of the tribe, and they must never know. Now with only the knowledge of Macavity's mind and my own guilt I would carry on, this dead thing heading for an empty oblivion. Bastet save the other Jellicles from a similar fate.

I was dead now. Dead and decaying.


	17. Munkustrap: WereCats 17

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Munkustrap – Part Seventeen

Author's Note = Just to reiterate so I don't get sued or anything here, all of this is entirely fake. Hunter Blakeney does not exist, let alone own the Winter Garden Theatre or is really the one who wrote CATS. As far as I know neither Andrew Lloyd Webber or any one of the original creative team is a werecat. Nor are any of its actors. This is simply my interpretation of CATS and all that surrounds it through the eyes of one of its characters, slightly altered, and how it fictionally has influenced the real world.

Had I my own way I would have kept the Jellicles in Maine for a much longer time than what had passed already. Just to be safe, until everything was ready. But the Jellicle Ball was quickly approaching, we could all feel it, and the universal frame of mind was that we should never miss such an occasion. The Ball was to be held in our junkyard, and the others made it certain to let me know they intended to do the same this year. I suppose I couldn't blame them. We had been at the estate for nearly six months now, and had initially left with very little warning to anyone. I may not have had such a problem with this, but the other Jellicles had lives that needed tending to: those who did not live as solitary felines, but humans. So it was, after the months had flown by and the news from Manhattan continued that Macavity was nowhere to be seen, heard, or smelled—not only from Skimbleshanks but from a certain vampire of authority—I provided the means to send the Jellicles back to their lives on the island, myself being the last to leave that rich old house in Maine. It was certainly delightful to be going back, but nothing would ever be the same. Not for me, and certainly never for Demeter.

After everything that had happened, Desere decided it was best if she did not live with me any longer. I will not blame her for such measures, as it seemed the more logical thing to do. I was the constant target for Macavity, for rival werewolves and vampires, and Heaviside knew what other enemies we had among the island, so in keeping her there would only increase the chances of these kind of things repeating themselves. I suppose I had gotten used to being alone over the time by then, but I would never cease to miss her. I saw her as often as I could where she moved in with Bombalurina, but with the kind of life I led, the kind she did, that was not a frequent schedule. No amount of Purring could blind an entire nosy human public to my actions, and it had been bad enough with her living with me as it was. I won't deny she at least seemed happier, some nights when I would travel down to their residential apartment and watch through the brightly-lit windows. The memories of Macavity would no doubt haunt her the rest of her life. Never again would any male touch her without serious consequences. She refused to be alone, especially at night when her paranoia exceeded my own. But she had Bombalurina, who could offer such strength and support that I could not, and it was through their close friendship that Demeter somehow found the will to carry on, to not let Macavity win by turning into what he wanted her to be. Words can't portray how happy I was for her.

The loneliness was not so terrible as I thought it might have been. I had lived alone when I was younger, without maids or butlers or servants, but that was years ago: when I liked to be alone. I was older now, Manhattan's Jellicle Leader, and though in my solitude I found the time I needed to take care of certain things that needed to be taken care of, it was still painful. The absolute emptiness of that penthouse, the knowledge I had no one to at least talk to over meals or evenings by the fire, unable to check on Desere in her room before going up to my own...it was the little things that got to me, but the concept of loneliness itself was just a part of the section of my life I had now entered. At least it prompted me to do one good thing: hire a new maid.

I had forgotten how long ago I had promised to do that very thing, probably right after losing the last one, but the problems that would occur upon doing so seemed to outweigh the advantages. But I managed to handle both by hiring another Jellicle. Improper, perhaps, as the idea of employing a friend on a set pay was indeed awkward, but then money had always been a strange subject on my mind. I cared little for it, often thinking it an outright curse, yet it had more often than once proved invaluable in some of the more important Jellicle-minded activities about the island. Money _is_ power. I don't care what anyone says.

Her name was Jellylorum. A very homely-colored queen of yellow and beige fur with darker-shaded markings who had come to Manhattan in hopes to escape the werewolf packs that were so prevalent in Chicago (known more notoriously as gangsters). I must say I couldn't offer her much joy in getting away from the Dogs, but a new life among a tight group of Jellicles was tenfold more appealing to her. She accepted my offer readily after becoming mates with Skimble (incredible, the old philanderer) and was indeed a wonderful housekeeper; as motherly as Jennyanydots. We got along well, which was worth endlessly more than what I paid her for simply work. She often insisted that they pay wasn't necessary, that just the knowledge and safety of being in a Jellicle Tribe was enough, but I wouldn't hear it. Very often I slipped her that increased amount. She also took up odd jobs helping an incredibly old Gus with his theatre work, impeccably clean and neat in everything she did. That on top of being a mother to her and Skimble's three children, once can only wonder how she manages.

Victoria, the oldest of the three, has fur of solid white and is an aspiring dancer in anyone's opinion, proving it time and again on Gus's beloved stage. The second, a male called Carbucketty, had fur of off-white and brown markings, most notably being a slash over his left eye. He rivals his younger sister, Etcetera, when it comes to energy and a rebellious nature. Etcetera, the youngest, is most certainly named for that same hyperactive energy that goes on and on, troublesome and yet the sweetest kitten I've ever seen. Her idolization of Tugger matches perfectly his ego. All around me I saw new kittens being born, other Jellicles transplanting themselves to the island from all over the country—all over the world—with the sayings that they had heard about our tribe and the strength of it, wanting to be a part of some piece of modern Jellicle society that was worthy of being known. How this came about, I haven't the slightest idea.

At least our tribe was expanding.

My daughter was back among us. My mother was freed and forgiven. Macavity was destroyed, if not dead. Sillabub was only one of the few Jellicles who found happiness and safety among out Manhattan Tribe. I was the leader of more than a rapidly growing score of loyal, healthy werecats and a territory that expanded most of Manhattan Island. Everything was going well, much brighter than the previous darker times. A perfect place to stop the narration.

But it doesn't end here. I wish it did.

To say the least, and this is really putting it lightly, the show was a hit with the human public. As a whole. On an individual level the opinions were as varied among humans as they were among werecats. I received probably as many death threats as I did praising of the musical stage show from other Jellicles once it had gone public to the world, but that was...what? Twenty-some years ago? It's still running today in some places, and nothing has ever come of any of the threats yet.

I must admit that I was quite pleased with actually burning the original copy of the thing. Not in that I forgot the majority of what work had gone into it initially, but it gave me a chance to redo and make the entire production that much more deserving to be remembered. Indeed, the original was probably decent enough in itself, but there were so many things I had wanted to do but couldn't until the years had passed. In rewriting the show, its songs and characters and plot, it was like gaining a second chance at doing something right among all the mistakes of my existence. I found a way to work in my beloved _Memory_, not only with a character but with a plot. Not only that, but on a personal level it meant so much more to me. My mother. Grizabella. Her redemption with me and with the entire tribe (a whole other story in itself) felt as though it were the only thing righteous enough to deserve a permanant attachment to that one song. I wrote my mother into the production as the withered old glamour cat she was, her involvement with the actual show very little but its meaning for those who know enough to find it so much more. Nor was she the only one.

Macavity found his way into the score as well. Again, his actual involvement was little save for his song and a fight between his character and...well, mine...but the meaning was endless in impact. I find it amazing the way it was written, as well. Not by careful thought and technique, but directly from the heart. In one night, a furious burst of inspiration beneath the light of a full moon, I poured myself out and recreated everything that had been there before the burning: characters, choreography, music, plot... Everything that had once been came back in a flurry of memories and emotion, driving me from everything between tears and burning hatred to laughter and the most intense passion before I was done. I can't say what possessed me to do such a physically exhausting thing. Perhaps, if nothing else, it was the thought that Gus had reported he found a producer when I had burned away the entire show without his knowing, and now felt the responsibility to repair that. Perhaps it was divine intervention...Bastet's will, I don't know. Heaviside knows she had used me thoroughly up to that point. Why stop? But this kind of use I welcomed. A chance to do something great. Perhaps in a way it might have answered the questions I'd been asking all along in my youth: about our purpose in this world, how a Jellicle could be great when he did not have a mate or kittens. Perhaps I was still trying to find some form of salvation by gaining her favor. Either way, it was done, and CATS is one of the very few things in my life I have not regretted.

The title was simple enough, suggesting all over of Jellicle influence to those who knew we existed, but to the unknowing humans a topic as innocent as could be. I constantly delight in the way this particular production offers so much to those of inside knowledge, but to anyone else it can only be as precise as they make it. To humans: a simple entertainment, skilled dancers and singers cavorting about as cats in a very clever and original conception with lovely, memorable tunes and whimsical characters, no real plot save for what is directly told to them. To other beings of a higher knowledge: an adaptation of Jellicle beliefs and culture immortalized on a stage, an attempt by one Jellicle to show forth the passions and emotions of the werecats in a way cleverly disguised to humans, somewhere within the text and plot a hidden meaning that one would have to be a Jellicle to discover. To myself and the Jellicle around me: our lives, put together as compactly and beautifully as possible to show the good with the bad, all that we have suffered and endured, the plot not only a metaphor for the daily struggle we fight but an astounding example of what we were originally created to be: creatures of passion and creativity, glorifying our Heaviside and Everlasting Cat and in an even deeper way that is in no manner hidden glorifying ourselves. There are so many levels on which this single show can be interpreted. How it is done, how deeply, what relations of the vague characters can be drawn and of the plot, depend on the individual. To me, I can only describe it as a mere fraction of my understanding of all Jellicle nature, in my own mind able to be delved into the deepest of levels for those willing to search that far. Whether or not this will ever be known by anyone else, I can only hope. Hope is all I can do. I hope that someone out there will understand and realize what we have all gone through: myself, my mother, Demeter, Bombalurina, Macavity, everyone, just by watching this theatrical show. I hope that the meaning behind it all can be grasped despite its being translated and revised into over a dozen languages and moved to a dozen different countries that has basically butchered the original settings. I can only hope.

In no way can I write now about this show so devotedly and not bring up the centerpoint of the entire thing. The Jellicle Ball, the show's highlight, the embodiment of everything Jellicle, was probably the most dangerous and daring thing I could have ever done. Greater than facing Macavity, defying Bastet, writing down a set form of music for the Jellicle Ball, a set choreography, was to put into stone the most defining point of werecat life. Just as they say the meaning of life cannot be written in any number of volumes or any number of words, the same holds true for the Jellicle Ball that can never be captured in any amount of notes or sheetmusic, no matter what the inspiration or creativity that goes into the effort.

Still, I tried.

It was an insane task to take on from the very beginning I had thought of the idea. While the numerous Jellicle Songs and those for individual cats had a defined melody and rhythm, a set music, the great annual dance did not. In every sense of the phrase the music of the Jellicle Ball was all in our heads. How does one write that kind of thing down? The ascension to Heaviside? The fight between myself and Macavity? The strain was agonizing to try and think back to those long nights of sensation, trying to capture the meaning of the things I felt as I danced and sang those nights and convey them across to others in the form of actual music. How does one do that, exactly? For a long while I didn't think it could be done. No amount of notes or melodies would suffice to fit those indescribable feelings and emotions that coursed through the very blood in my veins. I think now that such music was never meant to be written down, but by Heaviside I tried. Going back, listening to the version of the Jellicle Ball that did eventually come out in the show itself as permanant, I can find points where the music is so heartfelt to me I can feel those sensations, disturbingly close to what was experienced those nights of rapture. Close, but not entirely. There is music there, but I am now firmly convinced that no music can ever capture the full meaning and essence of the Jellicle Ball, and there is a contentment in that knowledge that no one will ever be able to. I can say that now, knowing as little as I do about the future, and be correct. One cannot write music that embodies us Jellicles: absolutely free, wild and mysterious, passion personified. It simply can't be done. Still, I tried. For better or for worse, it's there.

Though there had been no debate about it initially, afterwards I did find it within myself to regret having put Macavity himself into the production. It seemed against all things morally correct to leave him out, as much of an influence as he was in our lives and all that he came into contact with. Yet at the same time the putting in of his song, sung by the Bombalurina and Demeter characters themselves, dancing out a metaphorical version of our "cat fight" that had occurred in the depths of his lair, only immortalized him as well. I shiver every time I hear his song, low and slinking, as it comes up within the course of the show. No way in this simple production could I show a fraction of the evil he really was in life, but it seemed the right thing to do. Perhaps in some twisted, perverse way I was the one to carry out the wishes he had so unsuccessfully tried on a number of queens. I was the one who passed on his song to endless generations to come, whether they admired or hated him as much as I do both. I was the one who ensured the image and personality of that vampiric werecat would live on once the immortal life of his true self had faded. Again, no matter how much I wanted to avoid it, Macavity's legacy was insured. I could kill his son, but I couldn't kill him.

I say again, whether any of this I feel so deeply was ever realized by any of its audiences, that CATS was an incredible hit. It raked in the expected profits, the awards, the record-breaking runs, but in light of actually knowing what went on behind all of this, those seem some of the less important aspects of the process. Originally it opened in London, where Gus's producers had taken it, and though the written setting was to be a junkyard in _Manhattan_ the British Jellicles felt the need to alter at least that, if nothing else. Perhaps in some small way it was a protection. No one would know then, human or non, that the conception had originally come from New York, thus perhaps my tribe would be spared the dangers of putting out such a show. Our English friends seemed not at all deterred by the actual danger in all of this, bless their brave souls. It ran in London for over a year before the production was set up in America.

I provided the means for having the show played at the Winter Garden, using every legal or Jellicle trick I knew to keep my name from any official paper, and on opening night sat back in the balcony to see what it was that had come of our efforts. In no way was I disappointed. Even those parts who were played by humans were incredibly done. I do admit, more often than not the players of CATS shows are werecats themselves. Quite amusing when one thinks about it. Perhaps that is an attribute to its success: that Jellicles who have song and dance literally bred into them should dance and sing in this show that was meant for them. I have read it, on the most trusted of accounts, that even sometimes the sight of this production opens a Jellicle kitten's eyes to what and who they really are, helping them to find their way. Of that, I only wish I could do more.

There was a moment in my life when I was told I was about to die, and I was told to think about everything that I had missed, everything that I had never done. Those thoughts lingered with me long after. Macavity had said that had I lived after that he would be doing me the greatest of favors. I think now that he may have been right. He also told me to listen to the cat inside me instead of being so human, and soon after I had done just that. It had saved my life. Now I took full advantage of that knowledge.

It wasn't the same as a Jellicle discovering their Third Name—which I had yet to even come close—but still I think that a delicate balance is needed in all Jellicle lives between the part of us that is human and the part of us that is feline, perhaps even the part of us that is werecat. I don't mean just a physical balance, getting enough sleep and rest to maintain an active human life while at night prowling the streets on paws, but a balance in all other aspects of life: emotions, mentalities, desires and needs. After that fateful night when I began to truly listen to the cat side of myself and not be so human, I can say there was a definite change. I can't say what the change was. Perhaps I felt overall more certain of myself, not dwelling on the dreary path through my soulessness as I had done back in Maine. There seemed to be a distance now between myself and the life I knew: the rich glamour of Manhattan that most never see. For so long Hunter Blakeney had been a central figure in the politics and social economy of the time...it was a relief when he finally receded, letting the younger and more vital generation take over things from there. Munkustrap for now concentrated on the tribe, although, in his own ways, the fop never really did leave.

Life in general seemed so much better than it had in ages. The truce with the local Ticks was holding out remarkably well, the Dogs of the isle were near decimated, and the Jellicles were entering their period of dominance in Manhattan. I suppose that and my own inner discoveries led me to believe things had finally settled down. The nights I spent now prowling the interiors of my own territory in that same striped fur, exploring with these renewed feline feelings, less worried about keeping close watch of the borders and dangerous neighborhoods. It was almost remarkable, the feeling of release. Normal things, which had for so long seemed impossible, were now common and unmatched in the simple luxury and meaning. Sitting up in the garden again on the building's rooftop, rebuilt and remodeled, in the warm summer nights that followed I could be in human form thinking purely cat thoughts, or vice versa. More often the former, but it was such a pleasant thing to lie back and just think: venturing over both deep and shallow thoughts. I realized that all my life I had placed such a high value on knowledge, thought, analysis, description of every little thing to make sure I didn't miss what was really important. Others might say I was just overly critical and picky on some matters. Perhaps... There came a point when I ceased to care what others really thought of me. At least in the spare time I found I was able to take care of some things. I was able to visit Demeter and Bombalurina more often, at the least, alongside Jenny and most of the others. Listening to the gentle soprano singing of Jellylorum inside as she finished up her day's work, staring up into the dim outline of a moon that hung over the city, it was such a night when I realized there was something else I had to do...

I had a knot to untie.

Legally Adelle and I were still married. She having never stuck around long enough for any petty human system to take care of legal matters, the marriage could not be nullified. Not without her consent. Thus even after the years passed she was still Mrs. Blakeney. She was letting me know it, too.

They were little things at first, teasing tormentors that served as constant, painful reminders she was still on the island. Still thinking about me. A fresh rose left on the doorstep, her scent lingering on the windowsills of the penthouse, a rustle in the leaves of Central Park where I walked at night, or even something as simple as a thought. A thought from nowhere, more than likely projected there by those strange vampiric powers that varied from Tick to Tick. I have said before that I did not think of her often while Desere was living with me, and it was true. But now Desere was gone, and I had more time on my hands. They always said idleness was where the devil lurked...or in this case, the vampire. Summer was well under way before I decided to do something about it.

It was a new moon that night. I had picked that night especially. The energy of the Jellicle Ball had passed earlier at the end of spring, thus when there was no moon in the sky I had little to worry about emotions or any sort of madness getting in the way. Young kittens initiated into our tribe at the Ball now celebrated themselves with their new comrades and family, their joy and rapture rising up in a warm glow over the city though there was no possible way I could have actually heard them all. The thought was at least relaxing, which would serve me well. I couldn't afford distractions that night. I had to keep a clear head for what I was going to do. There was no going back for me, either. I knew it had to happen. I'd put it off for this long...

I was standing out in the rooftop garden after having my catnap for the night, almost four in the morning. The warm summer air blew in a refreshing breeze through my hair and light clothes, that wind I so loved as a youth. Of the only times I can ever think to call Manhattan beautiful, it's either in the winter or at night. The winter nights on the island, when glistening white snow, freshly fallen, covered the dark and dreary ugliness of the city there is no sight more beautiful. The golden streetlamps reflecting off of damp streets lined in piled slush shimmered on the frost-covered windows of tall skyscrapers and small apartment buildings alike, creating a special glow of mixed gold and off-white. Gold and pearl. Man-made jewelry amid a surrounding of nature's crystal blue bay. But even on a summer night like this, when the air was warm, the sweet scent of the garden in full bloom mixed with the light spices of the city below to create a hauntingly romantic serenity beneath a dark sky full of only stars. I remember that night vividly... sparse clouds drifted in ghostly gray wisps up above, and in the golden haze that covered the brightly-lit buildings from such a height I leaned against the cement and steel lining of the penthouse's rooftop, gazing over what was my home. Like the snow, the falling of night hid what ugliness could be revealed in the day: countless people in poverty or without homes, trash-filled streets, petty crimes that were a fact of every day life, even the stench of the pollution, the fires and fumes and blood, seemed to disperse. For now and until the sun rose, which would bring with it that heat that rekindled humanity and brought up through the atmosphere those vile scents and noises, the city was cleansed. It belonged to those who weren't human.

I don't know if I have mentioned it before, though how I could not have seems remarkable, but I loved this city. Not only was it my home, the home of my tribe, where I had been raised, but it was a sanctuary for us all. Within the walls of this steel and concrete city we cats were safe from the elements our ancestors faced. Safe from the masses of enemies who so often gathered in past ages but could no longer for the risk of being noticed by humans. We could live in secret among Manhattan's population as we wished to, avoiding the same wars that filled the past, the tragedy we had known to make way for another generation. Our blood had been shed to secure this city for Jellicles alone, and though the petty remnants of werewolves still annoyed us and the vampire lord kept his domain, this city belonged to us. It was one of only a few cities throughout the world that could be called so. What was it that almost defined a city as being Jellicle-dominated? While vampires preferred their age-old lives and places of history as much as there was legend, and the werewolves had their rural territories and traveling packs, Jellicle cities were predominantly cultural and artistic. We lived for the present, not the past. I'm more certain than ever that Manhattan was a place specifically chosen by Heaviside for us, and it was times like this, staring out now at the city that never slept, when I could feel the place's rhythmic heartbeat. Its life pulsed as a living energy in time with my own when I extended my hands into the air to feel its current, or touched a building solidly residing in the streets, or walked down a sidewalk simply gazing about. The city was beautiful. It was ours. It was home.

All the more reason to grow angry when vampires and werewolves, among other creatures, make themselves known. As though humans—who really do not know the extent to which they are destroying their planet—had not done a good enough job of dirtying a place of such potential, the werewolves only succeed in making the place that more filthy: leaving their bloody fights among the alleys, spreading their diseases and seeds everywhere they go, what they do not contaminate left by the vampires to fill with their putrid scent of decay or some other shapeshifter to inhabit. In no way am I saying that the Dogs and Ticks do not serve their purpose, or that all shifters like us Jellicles are vile, but they are as varied as the human race. Nevertheless, all philosophies and analysis set aside, she came that night. Just as I had called her to.

Adelle Riley: no longer a Blakeney in my own mind if she ever had been in true life. She appeared as most vampires prefer to travel, suddenly stepping from the shadows after having lingered as a part of them for Heaviside knows how long. It was not with a sudden start or even much of a reaction that I turned to look upon her, having sensed her presence a moment or two before she decided to make herself visible. Silence reigned for a long while in which we only stared, having not laid eyes upon one another with open recognition and mutual exchange for almost thirty years. Indeed, Adelle did not look a day over the twenty-some years as when we had been married, her body frozen in time as though captured in the one solitary picture I kept of her. She wore a slim, comforming dress of black, of course. Such dark and dismal attire Adelle would never have worn had she still been human. She had always loved bright colors. I had to remind myself more than once that she _wasn't_ human any longer. She was a creature of the night, having given herself over to the vampiric embrace what seemed an endless age ago, when I was young myself. So much time had passed since then...

She stepped further into the penetrating streetlight towards me, her pale, ivory-skinned arms a cold contrast to the velvety black she wore, her hair hanging long and curled as a child's as it had been the last time I'd seen her, its beautiful blonde thickness a testament to just how much vampires kept hold of their youthful appearance. Of her physical beauty there was no doubt, for it was her simply standing there, her eyes meeting mine, that this woman—be it a powerful influence or merely my old flames—was without a doubt the most seductive thing I had ever witnessed. I could have said the same before about others...about Bombalurina or such...but it would not have meant the same thing. This was not only a seduction of the senses, as Jellicles seem very prone to, but of the mind; an entirely different thing. Love is a seduction of the heart, which holds all emotions. I was in love with Adelle once, perhaps still was with the Adelle I had known, anyway. Now my mind was open to that seduction because I wanted to feel it again, thoughts whirling back to my fantasy mate and the wish that Adelle would be her. I wanted so much to believe we could still have something, even after the events of those nights so long ago, but it could never be. Seduction of the senses? Heh, I like to believe I was getting too old for that.

"Jhenna said you wanted to see me," she said in a voice of whispers, her movement making absolutely no sound as she stepped forward, the hissing rustle of her voice supplying the necessary sounds. Under a fringe of blonde hair her eyes met mine. Her eyes... If nothing else betrayed the conversion from human to vampire it was looking into the windows of all souls and seeing nothing there. What was once alive and so vital was dead and gone, leaving only this thing that was no more human than I was and twice as dead as I felt myself to be. Dead and decaying. It hurt me deeply to look into those eyes and not see the woman I loved there, but holding a breath I kept my emotions in check. She couldn't know.

"I'm glad you came," I answered with a customary nod, as though to any other member of my social class. "I wanted to see you."

Even as I watched her silently move on past me to gaze out over the city as I had done only a moment ago, a hand reached into the deep pocket of my slacks. I did not withdraw the small black box immediately, instead watching to see what it was she would do. She had come as per my request, which was a better start than I had expected. I had no way of contacting Adelle myself, and even with the majority of vampires gone from the island a select few remained. I would not try to find her via the Lord whose truce was still in play, though there would be no doubt as to his finding out my actions once this night was over. I could deal with it then. I had my reasons. Jhenna Talon had been my only messenger. A "young" female vampire herself, it was she I had requested to give Adelle my invitation: a request that had been seemingly carried out even though our acquaintance was...less than cordial.

"Why now?" Adelle broke my thoughts. Her back turned toward me, she still leaned out against the rooftop's railing, her voice quiet but having no trouble being heard among the soft rustle of the garden and city sounds below. "After so long, Hunter, you finally wish to see me again?"

There was a note of contempt in her voice as she spoke, but I paid it no heed. Instead, I closed the distance between us, slowly and surely, making the intention known that I meant no harm though I felt her tense when I was standing behind her, almost brushing the soft material of her dress. But she remained still, her eyes facing out and down, the rest of her vampire senses watching my every move.

"Yes," I said in reply, just as quiet and soft as her own. My eyes wandered over the profile of her face that I could see, her golden hair, the curves that formed the rest of her features, fine-toned and bred through years upon years of aristocratic living. Such beauty and power combined with lingering emotions which should have well stayed out of it, Adelle could have easily overpowered my own will with hers and had my at her entire mercy. But she did not. Everything happens for a reason. "I wanted to apologize."

"Apologize?" she laughed in scorn. "For what?"

Rather than seeming awkward to me that we should finally be speaking again after so many years, I took advantage of what was happening now. My aim was to distract her from knowing my thoughts for as long as possible while still carrying out my task. What that might entail, I could easily guess. For now, I simply reached my free hand up to lay against the flat of her back. She tensed immediately at the touch, but did not reel. My fingers traced the silky-smooth fabric of her dress, the way it was cut in the back allowing my palm to brush over her smooth, ivory-white skin. Warm and soft. She had fed already. A small comfort. "For everything," I said as she turned to look at me, finally, the glare in her eyes an animalistic accusation for daring to lay a hand upon her. It made me want to weep, seeing such things from her. The woman I'd known would have done no such thing... Still, I remained resolutely, and withdrew the narrow black box from my pocket to place into her lithe, glass-like hands. "I've missed you."

When her glare at me only remained, I opened the velvet-lined black box for her, removing the long, shiny metallic-colored belt of light chain and designs that was held within. Immediately her eyes were drawn to it, a gasp escaping her lips as she reached out to touch it, but I pulled the decorated belt back before she could. Slowly, with deliberate delicacy, I slipped my hands around the supple curves of her hips and gently attached the belt, where it hung with a loose conformity, its sheen brightly reflecting each and every light that played off its surface in dazzling brilliance. She sighed my name before lifting her eyes back up to me, lightly tracing her fingers over the dress material just above the belt.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, only confirming that vampires were never beyond their material wealth. "So bright..."

"Moonstone," I told her, taking her hands with utmost care and gentleness. Hands which had once pinned me against a wall with the strength of two werewolves. "It catches the moonlight itself, even when there is none." There was no stopping it now. What had led Adelle to such a course of action with such a lack of reluctance I could only guess, but I did not question it. Everything happened for a reason. Perhaps it was my willingness, knowing what it would eventually lead to.

We fell into an embrace. Adelle and Hunter. As though no such things as vampires or Jellicles existed, it was rapture to think for just a brief moment that we were still married and in love, caring nothing about the world beyond the two of us. It was a very brief moment. The scent of her hair, the sound of her breathing, the feel of her in my arms was like filling up the void left inside me. Unable to stop myself I held her close, wishing things were as they once had been, knowing fully well the danger of what I was doing and what I was risking. But it had to be done.

"Oh Hunter," she whispered after a long moment, pulling back only enough to gaze half-lidded up into my face. Our lips hovered perilously close, the scent of her so achingly familiar it only succeeding in increasing that desperate want. She said exactly what we had both been thinking all this time. "Come back with me, Hunter. I still love you...I want you with me..." Lies. All of it. I had to tell myself that to keep from believing it, for Heaviside knows I wanted to. I couldn't allow myself to be distracted by feelings. What Adelie proposed in those few words, all that they contained, was a temptation beyond belief. She so seductive, her words exactly what I wanted to hear, that alone was enough to make me falter. But Adelle went a step further. She read my thoughts. Perhaps not then, but at some point in time...there was no other way she could have known. She read my mind. "I can give it to you, Hunter," her hiss sent tingles down my side, her measured breath falling against my throat. "I know how. Eternal youth. You won't have to be afraid..."

I will not deny it any longer. There are few things in this world that frighten me more than the concept of growing old. I knew I was, as well. Standing there as I was with the thing who had once been my wife, I was well over fifty by human standards. Admittedly, Jellicles age only slightly slower than humans, but even then I could feel the years wearing upon my body, see it in a mirror, knew it in my mind. Upon thinking of a reason to justify such fear I can only suggest that for so long I had been strong and independent in order to protect the other Jellicles, only to find now that the ideas of feebleness, dependency, weakness were terrifying. It would mean I would have to renounce this leadership more sooner than later. I would become Gus: rarely going out except in a thin, ragged coat of fur and even then hardly able to dance at all. Yet now I gazed upon Adelle who looked not a day over twenty in body, in mind her knowledge spanning the vast years that had passed and were yet to come. She was offering me this chance at regaining my youth, no doubt by embracing me into what she was, and to live forever in darkness without at least the fear of growing old. Shall I be struck down for it, the temptation to consider it was unbearable. I might have very well said yes. I did only what I could to resist.

The kiss that followed was deep and burning, drawn from a combination of a vampire's never-ending demand and my own yearning to be with her. I could have reeled and vomited, imagining myself doing any such thing with this corpse, the taste of her as rancid and vile as the scent of decay that lingered about her form. Such grim facts of reality forced me back to myself, but even so I could not pull away. Whether she knew it or not—if I knew it or not—her power had its sway over me. I wanted her like nothing else. I felt the fangs within her mouth, pricking and touching as her lips moved down, over my cheek and to the vulnerable softness of an exposed throat, and it was then that I knew I had to act. I could hear her hissing in evil delight, her pleasure at just taking me there for the act alone and not because she needed the nourishment unhidden. For a moment I would have gladly submitted, allowed myself to die this way and bring an end to it all: the sufferings carried over from Maine, the years of pain and toil and worry, my fear of death and old age. Still, I didn't. Instead I felt my way down, unable to see through this haze of desire, until both my hands found the cold metal of her decorated belt. Clasping it on either side, I twisted the light chain around each fist until the metal was pressed tightly to her. Tightly enough to gain her attention.

She drew back with a sharp intake of air, glaring first at the belt and then at me with a blazing light in her dead eyes. "What are you...?!" she managed to snarl before reaching down to try and remove the constraining belt herself. Her hand had not but brushed it when she reeled back with a scream, the flesh of her palms scalded upon mere contact with the metallic surface. The belt wasn't moonstone. It was silver. Only silver could hold a vampire.

"Hunter!" she shrieked, struggling to get away. "Let go!" But I didn't let go. I held fast, with all the strength I could muster, as I saw in the direction I was facing, over her shoulder, the brightening sky of an oncoming dawn. Sensing this as well with a rising panic, Adelle screamed and struggled to break free, her nails pummeling at me like claws and her body writhing as a snake would in agony. But unable to touch the silver, unable to vanish from its bond, she could do nothing. All I had to do was hold on as the sun rose, nearer, nearer, until the bright golden light began to peek over the tops of the city buildings.

"NOOOOOO!!!" Adelle screamed, a sound not unlike Demeter's cry of absolute horror upon seeing Macavity. The dying scream of a vampire. A wail of absolute despair and defeat. I would not allow myself to look upon her face, and released what was no longer my wife a mere moment before the sunlight poured over us and she burst into flames. The distraction had worked. Everything happens for a reason. Her piercing screech rang out over the stirring city, echoing off the tall buildings before it faded into the distance: a sound that died as quickly as she did. The flames consumed and scorched, making short work of Adelle's relatively petite form as she collapsed to the floor, writhing and jerking until she moved no more. A matter of moments later, and she was gone. All that remained was a pile of ashes.

It was remarkable, the lack of feeling with which I stood back and stared, watching her die. I would have expected myself to be overwhelmed with a similar sorrow as when she had first been dead to me, to fall to my knees and cry out to Heaviside to join her in death, where there was no pain, no suffering. But there was no sorrow to be held for me now. Perhaps it was the thought of killing just another vampire, that Adelle had indeed been put out of her misery, that comforted whatever grief may be had. Nor was I ungrateful for it, this lightheartedness, after the lingering sufferings of Maine. I felt as though I had gained something back from that Heaviside-forsaken night when so much was lost. With traces of a smile pulling at my features I knelt down beside the ashes and reached one hand out, cupping a palmful of gray dust which crumbled at the mere touch of my hand. I stood up, arm still extended, and opened them to the breeze. The ashes blew away from me, carried by the wind across the city I loved to find their final resting place wherever nature saw fit. With them went the entire world: a world of dissipating ashes. Someday I would be ashes as well. But that thought did not trouble me. I faced the new dawn as it rose over Manhattan, its warmth and light touching first the tops of the tall buildings as where I stood, not yet illuminating the common streets and alleys to reveal their ugliness and filth. I couldn't help it, and laughed, turning my eyes up to the sky in complete and utter thanks.

"Goodbye, Adelle."

I guess there never had been room for the women in my life. _The women in my life_...now there was a thing to be laughed at. Who would they be, exactly? Adelle? She was gone, and had only ever even been there very briefly. Demeter? I could not and would _never_ lay a hand on her in that manner. Bombalurina? Perhaps...there was no doubt I'd been attracted to her since the first day we'd met, and indeed I had my fantasies, but I think the same can be said for almost every tom within the tribe. Bombalurina was just that kind of queen. Bastet? No, for although she remained dutiful to us as we were to her, myself as an individual was lost in her sight. We understood each other, at least. That could be enough. My mother I had only just begun to know and understand. Jenny herself was a friend, nothing more. And of Cassandra...we had no more encounters. I have found it to be true that it's lonely at the top, though I will not complain. I understand that I must be alone for several reasons, but never will I cease to hope. My hope lives on because I can see the others around me growing and living their lives, happier now, those who had just recently come into our tribe unknowing of all that has happened in the past. My hope is that they will learn to live, laugh, and love...that all my efforts and the others' sufferings would not be in vain. The good of the many does outweigh the good of the one, and I've done my piece. Perhaps more. I understand that now. Perhaps now I can rest...find my place and come to peace with everything that has happened. Perhaps. I'll never stop hoping.

There are so many things in this world that I thought I would learn to understand as I matured in my feline self, explored this cat side of me as Macavity had suggested. As of now I have yet to meet my expectations. One night mid-winter, a night not particularly special for any reason, I lay curled close to a dying fire, thinking these things. Such were my desires to know and find out that I was driven to my feet, shifting up to human form to stand in the darkness of the study, gazing round at the room bathed in moonlight. The bookshelves lining the walls columned the room, full of volumes and countless information; the laptop I had bought to replace my journal sat in silent wait upon the desk, one small green light indicating its power source. I wanted to understand these things and more, just to know. To know... Heaviside, I can't justify myself. I didn't know what it was I wanted, but I wanted something.

Perhaps there was only one way to understand it...

I sat down at my father's old desk, still polished with a sheen that made it look brand new, opened the laptop, and started writing.

_I was only seventeen when I found out I was a werecat..._

THE END


End file.
